Four And A Half Days
by Polgana
Summary: Gary tires to stop a major disaster, paying the ultimate price for failure. Or has he? Seventh in a series. Thanks to VJ for Beta/editing this monster.
1. Death Of A Hero?

FOUR AND A HALF DAYS or MR. HOBSON GOES TO WASHINGTON

by Polgana and Kyla

Rated R for some graphic violence (in my opinion, anyway) and language.

Summary: Something happens that is too big for Gary to handle alone. Even so, he tries, with tragic results. Crossover with Seven Days, Touched By An Angel, and The West Wing. With a touch of ER and Kung Fu: The Legend Continues, of course.

Disclaimer: Only a couple of minor characters are mine. The others all belong to too many people for me to name. The only profit we can take from this is your enjoyment.

Author's Note: Much thanks to Vicky Jo for Beta Reading this project, and to Rose for helping me cross my I's and dot my T's. J

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SATURDAY FEB 23 1325 HRS - WASHINGTON, DC

The tall, athletic figure checked his watch for the third time in the last twenty minutes. The cut of his clothes, his relaxed, yet ramrod straight posture, and overall air of alertness practically shouted 'military' to even the untrained observer. His lean, dusky features attracted a lot of attention from some of the younger . . . female . . . passersby. Which secretly pleased Commander Craig Donovan. Still, if they missed that train, Talmadge would have them *both* up on charges! Where the hell *was* Parker?

At the precise moment that he was about to alert security, Craig looked up to see Frank Parker, his friend and teammate, waving at him from the other end of the platform. He was almost a head shorter than Donovan, and about fifty pounds lighter. His face was lean with dark eyes that seemed to take in everything at once.

"Sorry, Donovan," Frank huffed as he hurried the last few yards to join his companion. "Jimmy's school play ran into some snags. Curtain was delayed almost half an hour. Then two of the kids got sick, one of the mothers went into labor . . . They finally canceled it when the star broke out in hives. I tried to call, honest. Is your cell phone working?"

"Of course it's working," Craig grumbled, pulling the object in question from the breast pocket of his windbreaker. He was about to deliver a cutting remark when he noticed the LCD readout. "Or it would be if I'd remembered to charge it this morning. Sorry, Frank. So the trip was a bust?"

"Not entirely," Frank chuckled. "Patricia and Jimmy are looking good. Her new husband's treatin' 'em right. I can't ask for more than . . . well, I *could,* but . . ." His voice got quieter as something behind Donovan caught his eye. "Jesus Christ! Craig, call an ambulance!"

Before Commander Donovan could get a single word out, Frank Parker had pushed past him, leaping off the end of the platform at a dead run. Turning to follow, Craig saw the object of his friend's alarm.

A bloody, ragged figure was shuffling . . . staggering, really, from one support to the next. He was dragging his left leg behind him, as if it were unable to bear his weight. His thick, dark hair was matted with blood, a good measure of which also covered the right side of his face. As Donovan reached for his cell phone, forgetting for the moment that it was dead, the gruesome figure collapsed into Frank's arms. With a cry, Craig rushed forward, snatching Frank's phone from his outstretched hand.

Frank used his handkerchief to try to stop the bleeding from a cut over the stranger's right eye, which was swollen shut. More blood trickled from the corner of his mouth in a bloody froth, a sure sign of serious internal injuries. As Frank tried to comfort the injured man, he felt a tug on his sleeve as the other man seized it with a strength born of desperation. One mud puddle green eye met his, pleading in pain and anguish.

"Please," the battered figure groaned in a barely audible whisper. "Th-the switch. I h-have to . . . s-switch the lines. P-please. H-help me. T-trains. Gonna . . . gonna w-wreck."

"Take it easy, pal," Frank murmured. "Help's on its way. Just try not to move. Craig, someone's beat the crap outta this guy! I think they pulverized his ribs. Hold still, fella," he urged as the man tried to pull himself up using Parker as support.

"N-no," he gasped. "W-wreck! H-hafta . . . hafta s-stop it! Please!"

At that moment, an approaching train gave a loud blast of its horn. From somewhere farther down, another horn blared. From that point on, Frank Parker would remember the horror that followed as if it had happened in slow motion. The two behemoths never slowed. They tried. The shrill squeal of breaks gave evidence for everyone to hear. But it was too little too late. Even at just twenty-five miles per hour, several tons of solid metal had too much inertia to stop in such a short distance. They hit each other almost head on, one coming in at an angle from another track. Both engines came off the track, plowing into another train sitting empty on a nearby siding. This was the beginning of a veritable avalanche of metal as the two passenger trains forcibly merged into one tangled mass. The air was thick with the dust kicked up as the mangled wreckage continued its relentless advance, accompanied by the tortured screech of metal on metal. 

One of the cars flipped into the air, coming to earth on their side of the wreck. It slid/rolled directly toward them! The two men grabbed the battered figure and ran for the platform. A second car was hurled from the holocaust, ramming into the first with an earsplitting crash! Both cars came to rest less than six feet from the platform.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity in Hell, the twisted wreckage ground to a halt. Then the nightmare began in earnest. The shocked silence lasted only a moment before the first pitiful cries for help arose from somewhere within.

Stunned, it was a moment before Frank Parker recalled the bloody shape he still cradled in his arms. Hearing muffled sobs, he looked down to see that battered visage pressed against the front of his jacket, his shoulders shaking with uncontrollable grief.

"Sorry," the figure sobbed. "T-tried . . . tried . . . s-stop . . . F-four men . . .d-don't know . . . G-God! 'M sorry. S-sorry." His voice faded as he, at last, slipped into unconsciousness.

"He knew," Frank murmured. "He knew it was gonna happen." Parker turned his incredulous gaze up to meet his friend's equally stunned look. "He was trying to stop it, but someone stopped him, first. Craig, he *has* to know who was behind this!"

*********

"His name is Gary Hobson," Nate Ramsey, Chief of Security for Project Back Step, reported later that evening. He was talking to Frank on his secure cell phone. "He runs a bar in downtown Chicago. We had to ID 'im from his prints. Whoever beat him also took everything but his clothes. The guy has a weird history."

"Weirder than mine?" Frank chuckled grimly.

"Believe it or not," was Ramsey's surprising reply, "yes. We investigated him in regard to that 9/11 fiasco last year." Only someone like Nathan Ramsey could refer to the deaths of over five thousand people and the destruction of a national landmark as a 'fiasco.' "He was calling everybody and their grandmother to warn 'em that it was gonna happen, but he couldn't get through to anyone that'd take him seriously. The guy was in the hospital when our boys tried to talk with 'im, and we never got any clear answers. All we can say for sure is, he was not at *any time* in contact with *anyone* even remotely involved with what happened. He has been accused, and then later cleared of the murder of a reporter for the Sun-Times. Spent the better part of a year recovering from some kinda accident that put him in a wheelchair a few months later, has twice been involved in some top secret project in Colorado, although he seldom leaves the Tri-state area, and just recently was instrumental in the capture of two of the highest paid assassins in the world. Which is why he was in the hospital on the day of the WTC disaster. They had been hired by a high-ranking leader of one of the local Tongs, who Hobson was set to testify against. And that's just what he's been up to over the last coupla years. He's been a busy man. Oh, and they say he's got a hell of a singin' voice."

"Come again?" Frank asked, not sure he'd heard the man right. "He sings, too?"

"Just that one time," Ramsey said with a verbal shrug. "He was talked into doing a concert with Dusty Wyatt in order to draw out the hit men. They say he did pretty good, in spite o' just bein' outta the hospital, but was injured in the fracas and put right back in. From what I've read on 'im so far, he should own Cook County Hospital by now. Any chance you can talk to 'im? Find out what he knows about the wreck?"

"Not much," Frank sighed. "They had him in surgery for more than eight hours. They had to take out about half his vital organs, and the other half ain't lookin' too good. If he makes it through the night, it'll be six kinds of miracles. Whatever he knew, though, he was killin' himself to try and stop it. Any word on the casualties?"

"Yeah," was the grim reply. "You and Donovan need to get your butts back here ASAP. A Back Step has been authorized."

"Whoa! Wait a minute!" Frank quickly checked that no one was in earshot, before continuing in a harsh whisper. "The Panel okayed a Back Step for this, but not the thousands that died in the Trade Center? Who was on that train?"

"The Vice President," Ramsey grumbled dismally. "His whole family, six members of the cabinet, and the Speaker of the House. It took them less than five minutes to give the green light. Talk to Hobson, if you can. So far, he's our only lead."

***********

"I'm sorry, Mr. Parker," the doctor told him when he returned to the Intensive Care Unit. Her voice sounded tired and dispirited as she read the chart in her hands. "He hasn't regained consciousness. Honestly, we don't expect him to."

"Any possibility of me just . . . waiting in there on the chance that he does?" Frank asked. He looked up as three more people hurried down the hall. "I can't tell you how important it is that I talk to him."

"Mr. Parker . . ." Whatever the woman was going to say was cut off as the petite blonde woman, who arrived two steps ahead of her escort, tugged on her jacket.

"Gary Hobson," she said without preamble. "I'm his mother. They said I'd find him here. Please, let me see him!"

"Of course, Mrs. Hobson," the physician said with a compassionate smile. "I have to warn you, though, this isn't going to be pretty. We had to remove his spleen and left kidney, and a portion of his liver. His right kidney is barely functioning, so he'll need dialysis. If he survives. All of his ribs were broken, and his lungs were punctured. His heart was also damaged. As I was trying to tell this gentleman, the only thing keeping him alive right now, is the ventilator. We don't expect him to regain consciousness at all. We've only been trying to keep him alive long enough to give you a chance to see him. As I said, at this point, the machines are doing all the work. You two are going to be faced with a hard decision. Do you want to keep things as they are . . . or let him go?"

Frank watched in morbid fascination, and a large measure of sympathy, as the woman and her husband fought to present a brave front, even though he could see that each word was cutting the heart out of them. In Lois Hobson's white-knuckled grasp was a newspaper. The Chicago Sun-Times. It was tattered in places where she had twisted it back and forth, obviously taking the brunt of her nervous hand wringing.

"We've been through this before," the man with her murmured, a pleasant faced sort with a thick shock of salt and pepper hair. Bernie Hobson gently took his wife by the elbow as they entered the Unit. "We know the drill," he added dismally. He looked back at Parker and Donovan. "You might as well come, too," he added to Frank. "You won't learn anymore than we've already told him," he added with a nod at Craig, "but it can't hurt to try."

Even knowing what to expect, it was a shock to see the pathetic, bandage swathed figure that inhabited the bed. The right side of his face was covered in a thick layer of gauze through which blood was already seeping, as was most of his head. Drainage tubes ran from his left side to sealed, accordion-like receptacles on the floor. More tubes emerged from each side of his chest, carrying blood and other fluids from his damaged lungs. At the head of his bed, on the left, was the machine that pumped air into his chest, which rose and fell in time with the artificial rhythm of the ventilator. 

On a shelf above his head was a bank of monitors. By now, Lois was well versed in the function of each one of them. There was the one that measured his heart rate, oxygen levels, and blood pressure. Another recorded brain activity. None of the readings gave her much hope. Her son was dying. Something she had known ever since that second Paper had shown up at their door that afternoon. The same Paper she was now twisting to shreds in her anxiety. This couldn't be happening! Not to her son! Her baby! It had to be wrong! *It had to be!* 

Hesitantly, Lois stepped up to the bed, her hand automatically reaching out to take the pale, almost bloodless one lying atop the blanket. The tracings on the EEG jumped slightly, then settled back to its former, barely perceptible pattern. Seeing that, Lois knew he was aware of her presence, and that he was fighting to hang on. A fight he was losing.

"It's okay, sweetie," she crooned tearfully. "It's okay. Momma's here. You . . . you go ahead and rest, now. We'll look after Lindsay, see that she doesn't . . . doesn't get in over her head. And, um, and we'll . . . we'll take care of things u-until Marissa and Emmett get back. You gave it your best shot, baby. It's . . . it's time to let someone else take over. We . . . we love you, Gary," she sobbed, her voice breaking. "Y-you go to sleep, now. It's okay. It's okay."

"Let go, Gary," Bernie murmured, placing his hand over his wife's. He gave both hers and Gary's a gentle squeeze. "It's time to move on, son. Your mother and I can handle things for a while." He paused to wipe at his own eyes before continuing in a strained voice. "We love you, Gary, and we'll miss you. Now, don't hang in there just for our sake. Let go, son. You've earned the rest."

"He's right, Gary," a soft voice murmured. "It's time to move on."

Hesitantly, a spectral hand emerged from the shattered body on the bed, reaching out blindly toward the voice. A shimmering hand grasped his and pulled Gary Hobson from his hopelessly battered frame.

"Lord!" Gary exclaimed with a shiver. "That was so *weird!* Kinda creeps me out." He looked over at the bandage swathed figure on the bed, down at his undamaged astral self, glad to see he was dressed in his usual jeans, flannel shirt, and jacket. He then looked up to face the radiant figure before him. Peering closely, he jerked back with a start of recognition. "A-Andrew?"

"You remember?" the angel chuckled.

"You think it'd be hard to forget a visit from the Angel of Death?" Gary murmured. "Twice, wasn't? But I seemed to 've managed somehow." He looked over to the scene around the bed. the sight of his grieving parents like a knife twisting in his heart. "Are they gonna be okay?"

"Not right away," Andrew sighed. "Eventually, yes, but not right away."

Even as they watched, horrified, saddened, the EEG tracings became less pronounced. Finally, there was a faint, keening wail as the light measuring Gary's brainwaves flattened out to a straight line. Lois turned and buried her tear-streaked face against Bernie's jacket. Her heartbreaking sobs of grief echoed in the sudden stillness as the doctor switched off the ventilator and the monitors. Her child, her baby, was gone, and there would be no miraculous return, this time. 

The Paper had said so.

***********

The doctor looked up at the clock hanging over the Unit desk. "Time of death: 2352 Feb 23rd.," she reported sadly. She put her arm around the sobbing woman's shoulders as she fought back tears of her own.

"Did they have to see that?" Gary murmured. He was sitting on the sink counter, one knee drawn up to his chin. "I mean, wasn't once enough?"

"They had to let you go," Andrew told him kindly. "So long as anyone held out *any* hope for your recovery, that wasn't going to happen."

Gary watched as his mother wept with great, heart wrenching sobs into his father's jacket. It was tearing him apart to see them like this, knowing that they couldn't see *him,* only the empty husk that he no longer wore. He wanted to tell them that it was okay, that he wasn't in any pain. Not anymore. He wanted to tell them that he loved them. He wanted that more than anything else in the world. They couldn't hear him, though. He knew, because he had been through this once before. He couldn't shout loud enough to penetrate the wall of their grief.

"So what happens, now?" he asked. "Do you take me the rest of the way? Or do I wait around to help Lindsay? She's a little young for something like this, ya know?"

"It's not that simple in your case, Gary," Andrew sighed. "You see those two men by the door? The big one is Commander Craig Donovan. The other is Lt. Commander Frank Parker. They're with the NSA."

"So?" Gary shrugged, unable to take his eyes from the scene by the bed. "It's a little late for *them* to do any good, isn't it? It's not like I can tell them what I know, because I don't really know anything. I got hit over the head and woke up in Hell."

Andrew followed the other man's gaze as he searched for a way to explain what was going to happen. It wasn't hard to see where his heart lay.

"Mr. Parker is going to undo everything," he finally said.

*That* got his attention. Gary's head jerked up and he shot Andrew a disbelieving look.

"S'cuse me?" he said. "Did I just hear you right? He's gonna 'undo' everything that just happened? I won't be dead? A-all those other people, they won't be dead, either?"

"No," Andrew replied, a sad smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "None of this will have happened if Mr. Parker is successful."

"H-how's he gonna do that?" Gary asked curiously. He was trying not to sound too hopeful, but Andrew knew how badly he wanted to spare his mother and father the pain they were feeling at that moment.

"Why don't we stick around for a while and find out?"

*********

Sunday Feb 24 0600 hrs - never-never land

Gary and Andrew were in a small conference room, already seated at the table as the other seven people filed in. He immediately recognized Parker and Donovan from the hospital. Three of the other four men were somewhat older, one of them at least in his late sixties. The fourth looked like he had just graduated high school. The fifth stranger was a strikingly beautiful redhead. 

"These are the people who're gonna bring back the dead?" Gary asked his guide.

"In a manner of speaking," Andrew grinned. "Just be patient and listen. Remember that Mr. Parker is the key to all of this."

Andrew arose from his seat and stepped over to a spot by the door. Gary stayed where he was, wondering why the angel had moved, when the youngest member of the group sat down in the chair that Gary, himself, was occupying! With a startled cry, Gary leaped from the chair and joined a chuckling Andrew by the counter.

"Whoa!" Gary exclaimed with a shiver. "Why didn't you warn me that could happen?"

"What did you expect?" Andrew chuckled. "They can't see us, remember?"

"Is something wrong with the air conditioning?" Andrew Owlsley, nicknamed Hooter, asked, looking around. "Did you guys feel the chill that just passed through here?"

No one seemed to be listening to the younger man. Frank was still seeing the look on Lois Hobson's face as her husband had tried to comfort her, to no avail. Gary Hobson, thirty-six year old tavern keeper from Chicago, Illinois, had died in a hospital just outside of Washington, DC from injuries sustained in one of the most savage beatings Frank Parker had ever seen anyone endure. Almost every bone in his body had been broken, every organ ruptured or damaged. In spite of his organ donor status, there had been nothing left to salvage except the cornea of his left eye. 

"What could anyone have done to deserve that?" he mumbled to himself.

"Something you'd like to share with the rest of us, Frank?" Bradley Talmadge asked from his seat at the head of the conference table.

"Just thinkin' about that Hobson guy," he murmured, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "I've seen some pretty nasty beatings, fellas, and been on the receiving end of most of 'em. What they did to Hobson, though . . . He'd said there were four of them. To Craig, or me that's a fair fight. Hobson wasn't *trained* for anything like that! *It was a slaughter!* These bozos coulda just roughed him up enough to stop him, locked him in a trunk or something, and just walked away. No. They had to beat him so bad, they knew he wouldn't have a chance in Hell of surviving, then left him to die by inches. I want those bastards, Talmadge. I want to do to them what they did to Hobson."

"You 'n' me both, pal," Gary murmured.

"You don't really mean that, Gary," Andrew admonished.

Gary shrugged, grinning sheepishly. "Well, it woulda been nice to've at least been able to fight back."

"Better yet," Bradley told him, "you're getting a chance to prevent it from happening in the first place. The only thing we know for sure is that Hobson knew about the wreck before it happened. We still don't know if it was a computer glitch or cyber sabotage. Unless someone comes forward to claim responsibility, we can only guess. But Hobson knew. All the way out in Chicago, he knew far enough in advance to charter a plane that morning and be in D.C. three hours before it happened. We need to find out how he knew, and why he didn't simply try to warn someone."

"You've gotta be kiddin'!" Gary snorted.

"After September 11th, you have to ask that?" Ramsey snorted, almost as if he had heard the specter's retort. "The man was making phone calls starting the evening of the 10th. No one would listen. He was laughed at, put on hold, or just plain ignored. Personally, I think he's a mole that someone forgot about."

"What's a mole?" Gary asked, curious.

"Sshh!"

"Well, at least he got the rest of it right."

"This goes completely against everything I've ever believed about you, Nate," Frank grinned, "but you could be right. Not about Hobson being a mole," he hastened to add. "He just wasn't taking any chances on being ignored, this time. And he paid a heavy price for going in without back up."

Talmadge closed the thick file before him with a decisive thump. "Well, you'll have about four and a half days to get to know Mr. Hobson, Frank," he said. "Find out how he knows about these things so far in advance, and if there isn't some way he could be of use to this project. If there is, we'll see what it will take to sign him on. That's a direct order from the Panel. If Gary Hobson has some way of seeing the future accurately enough to know the exact time and nature of a disaster, they want him brought in. One way or the other."

Frank wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. From the tone of his voice, neither had Talmadge.

***************

"I don't think I like those 'panel' guys," Gary was saying as he and the Angel of Death walked through the wall of the conference room. "What did they mean by 'one way or the other?' As in 'dead or alive?' I'm already dead, for cryin' out loud! And how is this Parker guy supposed to keep me from being killed? Isn't it a little *late* for that?"

"Not with these people," Andrew chuckled. "They've learned to do some amazing things in this place. Well, you've got a whole day to kill. Sorry," he grimaced at Gary's pained expression. "Poor choice of words. What would you like to do?"

"I want to see how the others are holding up," was Gary's quick response. "I mean, I know they still have a lot of . . . of things they have to do to get . . . ready. Are they gonna be okay?"

"Let's go find out."

*********

Sunday Feb 24 0900 - Chicago Illinois

"Oh, dear God," Marissa sobbed. "This can't be real! It can't be! H-he just w-walked me down the aisle *ten days ago!"* 

Emmett Brown gathered his grief-stricken bride into his arms and said nothing. What could he say? That it would be all right? How could something like this *ever* be 'all right?' From what Lois and Bernie had told them, Gary had been beaten beyond recognition. The authorities had been forced to go by fingerprint identification alone until the Hobsons could be flown in. And to get there just moments before he died! Dear Lord!

They were all sitting around in the main barroom of McGinty's. A sign on the front door informed the general public that the bar was closed until further notice due to 'a death in the family.' The sign was tacked onto a large black wreath. Everyone was there, all of his employees, family, and closest friends. There wasn't a dry eye in the place.

"This royally sucks," Polly Gannon muttered, her voice thick with emotion. "After everything he's been through, you'd think the Good Lord would cut 'im a little slack."

"Things just never seem to work that way for Hobson," Crumb sighed. "I swear, the universe must have a spite out for that kid."

"I didn't think there'd be so many," Gary murmured miserably, looking around at the crowded bar. "Even Crumb is here! And Brigatti!"

"People cared about you, Gary," Andrew told him. "Didn't you know that?"

"I knew some did," he sighed. "Mom, Dad, Marissa. I thought the others just sorta . . . tolerated me. I figured Armstrong and Brigatti would be relieved to see me outta their hair."

"That's unkind, Gary," Andrew gently scolded him. "Even *they* loved you to a certain extent. It's just not easy for some people to show how much they care for someone else."

"They, um, they said that . . . that they have to do a-an autopsy," Bernie murmured dismally. He seemed to have aged overnight. That youthful, humorous gleam which had always lurked in the corner of his eye was gone. "That we can't bury him until they . . . they complete their investigation." He turned to Crumb with a haggard look. "How long are we talkin' about?"

"A week at the most, I would think," the ex-cop sighed. "I don't know what all kinds of tests they might have to do, but surely no more than a week."

"That will give us time to make decent arrangements," Lois sighed. She had cried herself hoarse the day before. Now, she wasn't sure she had any tears left to shed. She looked . . . numb. "We have to get in touch with the twins. I think they were still somewhere in New Mexico or Oklahoma. A-and Jake's offered to deliver the eulogy. Oh! The service! Who should we get to conduct the service? And sh-should we take him back to Hickory? After the way they treated him, I don't know if he'd want that. I-I don't know if I could bear it i-if they started in w-with anymore gossip about him."

"Wh-what about Chuck," Marissa sniffed. "D-did anyone c-call Chuck? H-he'll want to be here."

"We called him right after we called you, hon," Bernie told her. "They'll be here sometime early tomorrow. It's not easy getting last minute connections these days."

All eyes turned at a tentative knock on the front door. There was a heart stopping moment of recognition as the young man stepped hesitantly through the opening. He was dressed in a dark overcoat, suit and tie, a familiar leather jacket draped over his left arm.

Seeing him, standing in front of the door, Lois was suddenly overcome by a surge of hope. An unrealistic hope, she realized a heartbeat later. This wasn't her son, no matter how strongly he might resemble him physically. Jake was a wonderful young man in his own right, but he just wasn't . . . 

"G-Gary?" Robin whispered.

Hearing that, the young man gave a sad smile and a shake of his head. He was watching Lois and Bernie with concern. In many ways Jake had pitied Gary's consistent runs of bad luck and personal injury. But the banker had envied the barkeep for the closeness he had enjoyed with his parents. A closeness that Jake had found lacking in his own. "I'm sorry," he murmured, starting to back away. "I shouldn't 've come. I-it's too soon."

"No, it's not," Lois said. Rising, she walked up and wrapped her arms around his waist in a warm embrace. Hesitantly, at first, then with almost as much desperation as she, he returned that embrace. Even though they had known each other such a short time, Jake had come to love Gary as the brother he'd always wanted and never had. Lois knew that Gary had felt the same way. Looking up into mud puddle green eyes, so much like Gary's, she automatically reached up to brush a stray lock of dark hair from Jake's forehead, catching herself just in time.

Looking down at the distraught woman, Jake could see her hand trembling, as if aching to do something comforting and familiar. "Go ahead," he murmured softly. "I don't think he'd mind."

Tentatively, Lois reached up and brushed the lock back from Jake's forehead, then leaned her head against his chest as she fought not to cry. Not here. Not now. Lois was never one for public displays of grief. Grief was something to be endured only with your family and a few really close friends, not a crowd as large as this! With a sigh that was almost half sob, Lois straightened up and took Jake's arm, leading him to where she had been seated at the bar. 

"Are you two doin' okay?" Jake asked as he took his place on one of the stools. "Anything I can do to help . . . w-with the arrangements or . . . or whatever?"

"I always knew there was something I liked about that guy," Gary murmured. "Besides his good looks, that is," he added with a sad smile.

"Behave yourself, Gary," Andrew chided.

"You got enough to do with writing that eulogy," Crumb mumbled. "You and the twins are gonna be half the pallbearers, too. *That's* gonna turn a few heads," he added with a dry chuckle. 

Jake gave the ex-cop an odd look. It still unnerved him a little just how much this man, a total stranger until a few days ago, looked like his father, Howard Evans. It gave him some idea of what Lois and Bernie must have felt seeing so many new 'Garys' show up at their door, so to speak.

"Does anyone know what he was doing in Washington?" Jake asked as he laid the leather jacket on the bar. "He was in such a hurry when he called, it was hard to make sense of what he wanted."

Lois and Bernie exchanged closed looks. They had a pretty good idea as to why he had gone to the capitol city, but they could not place such a burden on the young banker. No matter how much he might look like their son, he was not Gary. The same pretty much went for the twins, Buddy Jackson and Clay Treyton, when they returned from out west.

"He called you?" Armstrong asked, surprised at this revelation. "What did he say?"

The handsome young banker could only shrug in bewilderment as he replied. "He just wanted me to release enough money from the Foundation accounts to charter a plane. Said he had to be somewhere PDQ. When I tried to press for details, he just said it was urgent. A matter of . . . of life or . . . or death."

"He called me that morning," Peter Cain murmured distractedly, sipping at his coffee. He'd wanted something stronger, but it was Sunday. Besides, it just didn't seem appropriate for some reason. "Told me he was going out of town for the day. Asked me to . . . to look after things for him. Christ! He planned on being back in time to . . . to take everyone out to dinner. Even had me make reservations!"

Lois couldn't take her eyes from the faded leather jacket Jake had laid so carefully on the counter. She recalled how handsome Gary had looked in it that morning as he'd jumped into the cab and sped off to the airport. He had been so sure of having plenty of time to stop the tragedy before it could occur. Her hand moved as if of its own accord to stroke the soft leather, seeing once more the way he had smiled and told her not to worry. That everything was going to be fine. All he had to do was . . . was throw one lousy switch!

"The charter service called me last night," Jake told her gently. "The pilot found it on the tarmac not far from the plane. He must've dropped it as he ran for the terminal. His wallet and keys are still in there. My name was on the insurance form so, when they heard what happened, they . . . they thought it would be better to call me th-than to intrude, you know?"

"Th-that was kind of them," Lois murmured. "I-I'd better take it upstairs. Put it w-with his things. This . . . this was his favorite. Wore it almost everyday. I-it was such a pretty day f-for February." She wiped at her eyes as she took the jacket and hugged it to her chest. "Oh! *Oh!* We have to . . . to lay out his clothes! The ones he'll wear for . . . for . . ."

Bernie gently took her by the elbow and led her toward the back. "Why don't we go do that now, honey?" he suggested kindly. "Nothing too fancy. You know how he hated to dress up."

"But he looked so good when he . . ."

"It's not what he wanted, Lo," Bernie reminded her. He looked at the others over his shoulder as he led his distraught wife from the room. "Make yourselves at home," he said. "We'll be back in a few minutes."

"This is killing them," Gary protested. "Isn't there something I can do? Anything to make this easier for them?"

"It's never that simple," Andrew told him gently. "Losing someone, especially in such a violent manner, hurts. It's a pain more of the heart and soul than of the body. Those wounds never heal completely. They just grow a scar to cover the pain."

The office was just as he'd left it the night before. Unfinished paperwork was neatly stacked to one side, some of it still awaiting his signature. A half empty coffee cup attested to a late night getting his books in order for the coming week. On the otherwise tidy blotter were the inventory sheets, with penciled-in notations on what they needed to restock and a few things they should increase orders on. It looked as if he could be back any moment.

The worst place was the door leading to the stairwell going up to his loft. Lois vividly recalled rushing in, finding him lying in twin pools of his own blood. Although much of the wooden landing, and some of the steps, had been replaced, she could still sense the exact spot where she had cradled his bleeding head. Could still feel that moment of panic as she began to breathe life into him that first time when his heart had stopped. That heart twisting moment at the hospital when the doctor came out, his face telling her what she had most dreaded to hear before he ever opened his mouth.

"Please, Andrew," Gary begged. "There's got to be something I can do for them! Isn't there some way I can talk to them? Let 'em . . . let 'em know I'm not in any pain?"

"I'm sorry, Gary," Andrew sighed, sounding genuinely distressed. "Things are a little complicated where you're concerned."

"Complicated how?" Gary asked angrily. "You let other people run around in *my* head to wrap up unfinished business. Why can't I be allowed the same privilege?"

Andrew looked at his charge thoughtfully.

"C'mon, honey," Bernie murmured, gently tugging her elbow.

Lois led the way into the loft, going straight to the wardrobe. She took out a hanger, carefully arranging the folds of the jacket before returning it to the free-standing closet. Looking around, she saw that Gary's bed was still unmade, the covers tossed to one side and hanging almost to the floor. Instinctively, Lois began straightening the bed, fluffing and arranging the pillows as if she expected him to stumble in the door after an exhausting day with the Paper and fling himself onto it for a quick nap.

"We . . . we should look through his things," she murmured distractedly. "Try to pick out something nice, but casual. You're right. He hated to get dressed up. I thought, that jacket, maybe. He loved that jacket. A-and his blue shirt. The flannel one. Oh, dear! I just thought. Will we even be able to . . . to have an open casket? The way he w-was . . . It hardly looked like Gary at all!" She turned a tormented gaze on her husband. "I don't want anyone else to see him like that! I-it was . . . "

Bernie gathered her in his arms as the dam finally burst. She leaned her head into his chest and released the tears she had been unable to shed downstairs. Her tears mingled with his as they gave vent to the grief that could no longer be contained. For what seemed like an eternity they stood there, intertwined in their shared torment as they rode out the worst of the storm, each leaning on the other for the strength to endure this latest trial.

It was a tentative knock on the door that finally dragged them from their tumultuous flood of emotions. Drying his eyes on a sleeve, Bernie released Lois long enough to answer that hesitant call.

"I-I'm sorry to intrude again," Jake said, "but I have to meet Joan at the airport in a little while, and I didn't want to leave w-without . . . y-you know."

"That's okay, Jake," Lois sniffled. "H-have you ever seen Gary's place? You two hadn't known each other very long b-before . . . um, come in! Come in. Please."

Hesitantly, Jake stepped the rest of the way into the loft, closing the door behind him. Following the bereaved couple, he got his first good look at his cousin's home. It still seemed odd to think of Gary as his cousin. They hadn't even known they were related at all until that disastrous 'vacation' the twins had talked them into last year. Jake had joined them out in Las Vegas just in time to help drive off two men intent on maiming, then killing the hapless barkeep. They had come a little too close to succeeding.

"Oh, dear," Lois murmured. She had stopped next to a basket of clothes. "He forgot to put these away. And he was wearing this one just the other night," she added, picking up a rumpled shirt from atop the neatly folded ones. She held it up to her face, breathing in the scent of his fabric softener and . . . something else. Just the faintest scent of *his* cologne, and *his* own personal aroma. A combination of scents that was exclusively *him.*

As her face twisted in a renewed flood of grief, Bernie and Jake both wrapped her in a protective wall of flesh, their own faces mirroring the pain that was too big for one heart to contain.

"Andrew! Please!"

"Go on," the angel sighed. "But only for a minute. He's not you, and he can't handle more then that."

"Thank you!" Gary almost sobbed. "A minute's all I'll need."

Still clinging to each other, they felt Jake suddenly stiffen as a chill passed through all three of them. Alarmed, Lois and Bernie looked up into the young banker's eyes. He looked back with a depth of warmth and love that seemed bottomless, even compared to the grief that had been there just a second before.

"I love you both very much," he said in a tone so much like Gary's it was frightening! "I know that my birth was not in your plans. That you could have taken the 'easy' way out, but chose, instead, to have me and to love me. For that, I thank you. Just know that your son loves you, has *always* loved you, and will continue to love you . . . forever."

Stunned, Lois and Bernie almost didn't react in time as Jake's eyes rolled up and he collapsed in their arms. Bernie helped him to the sofa as Lois hurried to the kitchenette for a glass of water.

"Wh-what the hell was *that?"* Jake murmured as he pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. "Whoa! For just a second or two I was . . . That was *so weird!"*

"I think you just gave us a message from Gary," Lois told him, her lips curving up in a trembling smile as she pressed the glass of water into his hand and encouraged him to drink. She still had that note. The one in Gary's handwriting that he told her couldn't be real . . . because he had written it in a dream. She turned to see Bernie looking just as puzzled as Jake. "I'll explain later, sweetie. The important thing is, he's okay. Our baby's okay," she finished in a tight voice.

"Wh-what about the reunion?" Jake murmured softly, still feeling a little dazed. "Th-that's one of the things I wanted to ask you. A-are you still gonna have that? Gary was the one stuck with all the arrangements, a-and I know he worked hard on that family tree, and the presentation on Captain Chandler. It'd be a shame to waste all his hard work."

"Don't do that to her, Jake," Gary pleaded, having once more taken his place beside Andrew. "Can't you see she can't worry about that now?"

"I think he'd like that," Lois replied with a wistful smile. "It'd be kind of like he was there with us, don't you think?"

"I am here, Mom," Gary told her, even though he knew none of them could hear him, now. "I'll always be here when you need me."

"Not this time," the Angel of Death reminded him. "I'm afraid we have to go now, Gary. We have other plans, remember?"

**************

Monday Feb 25 0500 hrs - never-never land

"Why are we back here?" Gary asked as they strode into the locker room. "What's gonna happen, now?"

"Now comes the really amazing part," Andrew assured him. "Just watch."

Frank adjusted his bright orange flight suit, making sure his cell phone was safely fastened in its zippered pocket. He always felt a little silly in the garish, insulated, snugly fitting outfit, but it provided a certain amount of protection from the incredible G-forces involved in back stepping. Not enough to keep him from feeling like he had been put through a runaway cement mixer, but it was better than nothing. Tucking the white helmet under his arm with a sigh, Frank slammed his locker closed and headed for the launch pad, totally unaware of the spectral figures in his wake. 

Dr. Olga Vukavitch almost ran into him as he stepped from the locker room. The slender redhead gave him a tentative smile as she fell in step at his side. She cleared her throat nervously, quickly looking down as if to check some figures on her clipboard.

"I think she likes him," Gary chuckled.

"Like *you'd* know," Andrew snorted.

"Hey!"

"Are you all right, Mr. Parker?" she asked him. "You seemed distracted at the briefing yesterday."

"I'm fine, Olga," Frank sighed. "I just can't get that poor bastard out of my head. I keep hearing him pleading, begging me to stop those trains. He didn't ask for a doctor, a medic, or even a *band-aid* for himself. He was dying, and his only concern was for the people on those trains. When it happened, he just . . . caved. It's like the only thing keeping him alive was the need to stop that wreck from happening. It was kinda . . . I dunno, humbling."

"You make him sound like a saint," the Russian physicist mused. "I'm certain that, once you get to know him, Mr. Hobson will prove to be just another stubborn, opinionated, chauvinistic, arrogant American male."

"Are you sure we've never met before?" Gary asked. "She seems to know *me* pretty good. Except for that arrogant part. Do I seem arrogant to you?"

"A little self-centered at times," Andrew shrugged with a waggle of his hand. "Nothing major." He fought to suppress a smile at Gary's insulted look.

"You need to bone up on your Bible studies," Frank grinned. "Every one of the saints were just ordinary men who found God in their own way. Even Jesus had a hell of a temper. Or did you skip the part where he drove the moneylenders from the temple? No, Hobson's not a saint. Not yet. Maybe in twenty, thirty years. Or maybe never. He just didn't deserve what happened to him. Even serial killers are granted a 'humane' execution. Why beat a man like that? Why make him suffer a slow, agonizing death, just to steal his watch and wallet?"

"You don't know the half of it, pal," Gary shuddered. "And they missed the wallet."

"We don't know for certain that *that* is what happened," Olga shrugged. "He may have been involved in what was about to happen and had a change of heart. Perhaps the thought of all those deaths weighed too heavily on his conscience."

"Hate to disappoint you, sister," Gary snorted, "but you're only half right."

"How are you going to find out anything if you don't listen?" Andrew sighed.

"I'm listening!" Gary assured him. "I can't put in *my* two cents worth?"

"You wouldn't think that if you'd seen him, Olga," Parker sighed. "He cried. Not because of what was done to *him,* but because he couldn't stop those two trains from colliding. I keep hearing him apologizing, over and over, for not having the strength to throw that damned switch!"

Gary slowed his step, falling behind as a wave of memory washed over him. Andrew paused, eyeing him with concern.

"It's just memories, Gary," he assured the tormented soul. "You don't have to take them with you if you don't want to."

"Good," Gary replied with a shudder, hastening to regain lost ground.

At that point they emerged from the long corridor and into the launch bay. Olga gave Frank an encouraging smile as she excused herself and headed for the control room.

"I still think she likes him," Gary insisted.

"Qui-et!" Andrew muttered, fighting back a smile.

"Whoa!" Gary exclaimed. "What the heck is that!"

"Your ticket back to the land of the living," Andrew replied.

Even after more than four years and more missions than he wanted to count, Frank always got a chill whenever he saw the 'Sphere.' A huge, faceted ball, light blue in color, and about twenty feet in diameter. It sat in the framework of a large scaffold. Conduits, hoses, and cables created a web work that only added to its eerie appearance. There was an air of 'otherworldliness' about it. Justifiably so, since it was powered by an alien fuel source. When Frank Parker had been 'rescued' from the mental ward of Hansen Island, and drafted into the Back-Step program, he learned that the reports of an extraterrestrial spacecraft crashing in the desert near Roswell, New Mexico, had been true. The wreck had been salvaged and, over the years, had yielded some amazing discoveries. The Backstep Program was the result of one of them.

As Frank approached the device, Ramsey and Donovan fell in on either side of him. Ramsey handed the chrononaut a very thick, bound report, while Craig helped Frank secure his helmet.

"That's everything we could find on Hobson," Ramsey said, almost shouting to be heard over the ambient noises of the launch bay. "What I gave you this morning just scrapes the surface. There's definitely somethin' strange goin' on with this guy. He's been mixed up in all kinds o' trouble over the last five, almost six years, now. And I mean *all* kinds. He's been hunted all over the Tri-state area twice by the police, and once by the Tong. There's police records in there, along with medical records, psych profiles, and . . . and his autopsy. From the bruise patterns, he was beaten with fists and blunt instruments. Clubs of some kind. There are abrasions on his wrists and ankles, but none on his hands. There were also a lot of shallow cuts and burn marks. Whoever did this to him, they weren't just out to kill him. That man was tortured." Nate handed over another sheet of paper. "The small airfield he landed in was just five minutes from the station. Where was he for the other one hundred and seventy-five?"

"You really don't want to know the answer to that," Gary grumbled, suppressing another shudder. He looked over the security chief's shoulder at the photos taken at the autopsy and the shudder broke free. "Please tell me my parents won't *ever* see these!"

"They won't," Andrew assured him.

Frank shuddered as he pictured what those missing hours must have been like for Gary Hobson. Bound hand and foot, possibly gagged to muffle the screams of pain. The lack of abrasions on his hands meant that he was not even given the chance to defend himself. The burn marks . . . were they questioning him? Trying to wring information out of him about the upcoming wreck? It was beginning to smell more and more like sabotage. And murder.

"Kinda rules out your garden variety mugging, doesn't it?" he murmured as he leafed through the report. "You expect me to memorize all this before lift-off?"

"Talmadge said to take it with you," was Craig's surprising answer. "The panel approved it. They think that, in order to recruit Hobson, you may have to tell him about the project. He'll think you're nuts, of course . . ."

"Like he's got room to talk?" Frank chuckled as he read about an incident involving a stolen mattress costume. "Have you read this? Is there anything this guy *wasn't* into? Oh, wait! I gotta read this! How do you get excused from jury duty for *life?* And get this. He was 'pantsed!' In public, no less! Is that a tattoo?" he asked, taking a closer look at the picture.

"Aw, man!" Gary groaned. "Couldn't they leave me a *little* dignity?"

"You haven't exactly led a normal life, lately," Andrew remarked with a wry grin.

Gary shot the angel a sarcastic look that spoke volumes. "Like I *asked *for any of this?"

*"Anyway,"* Craig sighed, "they think he might need some convincing. If you think it's necessary, you're to show him that. And, if that doesn't do the trick, *this* should." He handed the chrononaut a folded newspaper. 

His first glance at the front page was like an ice bath, completely wiping away all traces of humor. It was a copy of Sunday morning's Chicago Sun-Times with the story of the train wreck on page one. In the bottom corner of page three was a smaller headline, circled in red, with a photograph of the dead man. It showed a youngish man with a thick shock of dark hair and a ready smile that reached all the way to his eyes. A youthful, all-American face that practically screamed 'Mom and apple pie.' A face that belonged on a billboard, or a movie screen, not in the obituaries. He was the quintessential 'boy next door.' So what was he doing getting himself tortured and murdered by terrorists? For Frank thoroughly believed that *that* was what had happened.

On page six was an article detailing Hobson's death at the hands of unknown assailants. There was a picture with this, also. A picture that was already burned into his brain. It had been taken at the train station just minutes after the derailment, while they were still waiting for the rescue crews to arrive. It showed Parker and Donovan cradling the battered, bloody figure that was still, barely, recognizable as having once been a human being.

"God!" he murmured dismally. "I hope his parents didn't see this."

"That makes two of us."

"If that doesn't convince him," Craig was saying, "I don't know what will. I mean, how often do you get tomorrow's newspaper?"

"Oh, brother," Gary chuckled dryly. "If you only knew!"

"Let's go, gentlemen," a voice boomed over the intercom. "The clock is ticking!"

Parker clambered up the metal steps with a sigh. It was time to ride the cement mixer.

**********

Gary watched as Parker entered the giant sphere. After what seemed an indeterminable amount of time, the countdown began. The air seemed supercharged with energy as someone, the woman, started calling out power levels. Cables started falling away until only the ones feeding it power remained. He stood on the gantry, looking in at the man who was going to undo what he had been unable to prevent. A blindingly blue flash of energy washed over him and Gary saw Parker's eyes widen. As the world dissolved into a swirling limbo, Gary was almost certain that the time pilot had seen him.

***********

Tuesday Feb 19 0500 hrs - Chicago, Illinois

Gary sank down on his bed with an explosive sigh. Looking at the clock, he wondered if it was worth the effort to even get undressed. The Paper had sent him all the way up to Skokie to stop two men from killing each other in a barroom brawl over, of all things, who was going to take the new waitress home. Gary had solved *her* problem by letting her take his cab, and paying the fare. Which had left him at the not so tender mercies of the two drunks. He still wasn't clear on the details after that first punch, but he had somehow managed to avoid a second, and ran like a rabbit. At least the headline had disappeared, to be replaced by an advertisement for acid relief.

He pressed a bag of frozen peas to his left eye, hoping to keep the swelling down. Still, he was going to have another shiner to explain the next day. Maybe he should take Peter up on that offer of self-defense classes? Either that, or strap his hockey stick to one hip. 'Naw,' he decided. 'That wouldn't do. I'd be trippin' over it every time I turned around.'

Gary had just about decided to try for that one blessed hour of sleep when he saw the streak of light flash across the glittering skyline. It was followed a second later by a muffled 'whumph!' At almost the same instant, a strange . . . jolt shuddered through his athletic frame. He jumped to his feet in alarm. What the heck was *that?* The Paper hadn't said anything about a plane crash! Or was it something else? Whatever it was had gone by so fast, his mind hadn't really been able to register any details. Was it a meteor? Or maybe a piece of a satellite whose orbit had decayed? Whatever it was seemed to have landed somewhere to the north. Maybe Lincoln Park?

The amateur astronomer in Gary was instantly intrigued, banishing his fatigue. Traffic was light at this hour. If he took the van, he could be there in just a few minutes. He took a second to toss the bag of peas back into the freezer before snatching his keys from the top of the dresser and bolting out the door.

*********

Frank Parker pushed the hatch open with a groan. As usual, he felt as if every muscle and bone in his body had been used for a quick game of racquetball. It was only his unusually high pain threshold that allowed him to move as if he had endured nothing worse than a bad night on a lumpy mattress. Quickly stripping off his flight suit, Frank pulled out the carryall holding the Hobson dossier, the paper, and his favorite jacket. Before locking the hatch, he retrieved the cell phone from his flight suit, hitting the speed dial as he turned and walked away from the sphere.

"Conundrum," he said as soon as the switchboard answered. This got him patched through to Bradley Talmadge's secure line. As succinctly as possible, he relayed the events leading up to the back-step. "Hobson's the only lead we had," he concluded, "but he died before he could tell us anything. I'm supposed to get close to him and find out what he knows," he added evasively. 

"We'll get busy on our end," Bradley assured him. "Ramsey will find out everything there is to know about your Mr. Hobson and Craig will hand deliver it by tomorrow afternoon." 

"That won't be necessary," Frank told his superior. "I've got a complete dossier with me. Hobson isn't behind this. That's one thing I'm sure of." He ducked into a clump of bushes as he saw someone approaching the landing site at a slow jog. "I'll explain later," he whispered. "Gotta go."

Pocketing the phone, Parker watched as the figure passed through the radiance of a streetlamp. To his astonishment, a very alert, very *alive* Gary Hobson ran past, heading in the general direction of the sphere. What was the guy doing up at this hour? Frank watched as the tavern keeper caught sight of the still smoking time ship. 

With a wide-eyed look of wonder, Gary Hobson walked completely around the vessel, staying well out of arm's reach. As he circled back into the light, Frank could hear him muttering to himself. He had to bite his lip to keep from chuckling at the way Hobson was answering his own questions.

"A satellite, maybe?" Hobson murmured excitedly. "No, couldn't be. This was a controlled landing. Military experiment? Maybe. Manned or remote controlled? Manned, probably. So, where's the pilot? Musta gone somewhere to call in the recovery crew. Where are the engines? What kinda power source does it use? This is . . . Man!"

Frank Parker shook his head in wry amusement. Hobson was grinning like a kid on his first trip to Disneyland. The NSA agent just could *not* see this wide-eyed innocent as having anything to do with the horror to come. Hobson certainly didn't seem the type to warrant even *half* the violence done to *him!* 

Finally, Hobson straightened with a wistful sigh. He still had not tried to touch the sphere, or even approach too closely. Now he started backing away, unable to take his eyes from the bizarre object until he was almost level with Frank's hiding place. Glancing at his watch, which was affixed to what looked like a leather wrist brace, Hobson gave one more sigh and turned back the way he had come. A couple of minutes later, Frank heard a car engine start up and drive away. Only then did he emerge from his concealment. 

"So, that's the real you, huh, Mr. Hobson?" Parker murmured. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you."

**********

By the time Gary returned to the loft, he had just enough time for a quick shower and shave before the Paper arrived. Wiping the last bit of lather from his face, he opened the door to allow the cat to saunter in like visiting royalty. Gary bent down and scooped the Paper up, quickly skimming through the headlines as he closed the door and headed back toward the kitchenette. He popped open the can of Fancy Feast with one hand and dumped it into the cat's dish, never taking his eyes from the Paper as he broke the clump up with a fork. Setting the dish down in front of the patient feline, he wandered back into the living area, finally taking a seat on the sofa as he continued to read. 

So far, the day didn't look *too* bad. A few of the inevitable traffic accidents, a miming incident, and choking by . . . bagpipe? How the heck . . .? The article told of a street performer who accidentally swallowed his mouthpiece when knocked down by a bike courier. Oookay!.

Looking at his watch, Gary saw that he had time for a decent breakfast and to go over yesterday's receipts before the first traffic fatality was due to occur. If he ate fast, he might even have time for a second cup of coffee! With Marissa away on her honeymoon, all the paperwork fell back on him. Along with the day-to-day business of running the bar. Add that to his 'other activities,' and it added up to a lot of work and very little free time. 

Normally, his parents would come over to help with the bar, but they had finally closed on a house in the suburbs after more than a year of searching for the 'right one.' Today they had to supervise the delivery of all their furniture and appliances. 

The staff started showing up around ten o'clock to help get things ready for the lunch hour. Dave, his head chef, was quick to get the kitchen in gear, preparing a few staple dishes in advance. Robin and Vadim helped Gary set out bowls of various snack foods, recheck the stock, and carry out a supply of clean glassware. By eleven o'clock, everything was ready. 

By eleven fifteen, Gary had stopped Natalya Kirillova from being hit by an overworked cabbie. An hour later, Brian Youngblood was doing the 'walking against a strong wind' skit in his mime routine, unmindful of the open storm drain behind him. Gary dropped a sheet of plywood over the gaping manhole just in the nick of time. Three blocks away, Donald Stewart was saved from asphyxiation when Gary stepped in front of the distracted courier. Gary was knocked to the sidewalk, but got right back up. And no one else was hurt, which was the important thing.

By six o'clock, Gary had finished for the day. Which was a huge relief. It looked like he might get to bed at a decent hour for once. As he wearily dragged himself home, he kept rubbing at the back of his neck with his left hand. He'd had the strangest feeling all day. A kind of persistent itch, as if someone were watching him. Even now, he couldn't shake that odd, tingling sensation. Several times, he had turned suddenly, hoping to catch someone staring. He had yet to see the same face twice.

He limped into McGinty's around six thirty, his left hip still sore from the tumble he'd taken in saving Stewart. The dinner crowd was good tonight, and not too rowdy. He spotted a couple of teenagers trying to pass as being of legal age and signaled Gene with a shake of his head. Three guys who had obviously reached their limit were singing off key at one of the back tables. Gary pulled Karen aside and told her to call a cab for them. He then sat down with the jovial trio, keeping them distracted and learning where they lived. When the cab arrived, he and Karen helped to load them into the vehicle. Gary even gave the driver enough money to cover the fare and a good tip.

"That was generous of you."

Gary turned to find a lean-faced man sitting at the bar, sipping on a glass of draft beer. He seemed to be shorter than Gary, with thick dark hair. He was dressed in a dark t-shirt, faded jeans, and a dark leather jacket. Bird-like eyes studied him over the rim of the glass. Although the man seemed to be totally relaxed, Gary had the feeling that *this* man never really let his guard down. For some reason, the man seemed strangely familiar.

"Not really," Gary told him. "Places like this thrive on return visits. Those guys can't come back if they get themselves killed." He stuck his hand out. "Gary Hobson. I'm, um, I'm afraid I sorta co-own this place."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hobson," the man replied with a quick grin and a handshake. "Frank Parker. I wish more barkeeps had your concern for their customer's safety. Think how much safer the roads would be."

Gary eased himself onto the neighboring barstool with a grimace. 'That hip's gonna give me hell tonight,' he sighed to himself. "I don't remember seeing you in here before," he grunted. "Do you live in Chicago?"

Frank shook his head as he sipped at his beer. "Just visiting for a few days," he replied. "What's wrong with your leg? You've been limping ever since you got here."

"Little biking accident," Gary shrugged. "Y-you got a place to stay, yet?"

"The Best Western River North on Ohio," Frank replied with a grin. Hobson was pumping *him* for information! This was a game Parker had played many times before, this mental fencing. He had been watching Hobson all morning without the other man seeing him. Although it had been close a couple of times. Twice, Frank had barely managed to duck out of sight as Hobson spun around to 'check his six.' And what a chase they'd had! The man had pretty much led Frank on a tour of the city! From his count, at least six people owed their lives to the poor guy. Nine if he counted the Off-Key Trio. He was more and more convinced that Hobson was no threat to National Security. "There's a lot to see in your city," Frank commented, trying to keep it casual. "Any suggestions on where I should start?"

The corner of Gary's mouth twitched into a sort of half-smile as he rattled off some of his favorite places, as well as a few ethnic restaurants that weren't mentioned in the tourist guides. He still seemed a little on edge, though, so Frank decided to rattle his chain a little.

"Did you hear that sonic boom this morning?" Parker asked innocently. "I thought jets weren't allowed to fly that fast over the city!"

It was like a shutter being closed. Gary was instantly on the alert. 

"I heard something," he murmured cautiously. "I-it was real early. D-don't . . . don't know what it was, though."

"But you don't think it was a jet," Frank observed. The guy was a terrible liar. Frank leaned over toward his host and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, "Was it a UFO?"

The look Hobson gave him was one Parker had seen many times, usually aimed in his direction. A look that seriously questioned how many bricks shy of a full load he might be.

"You've been watching too much TV," Gary said. "You need to get out more."

Before Parker could reply, one of the waitresses dropped a tray of glasses as a rough looking man tried to pull her into his lap.

"Hey!" Gary snapped. "This ain't 'Roadhouse,' Mac. We don't manhandle the ladies, here," he added as he limped over to rescue Karen. He had only taken a few steps when the man let go of the young woman and stood to his full height. 

The guy was a behemoth! He towered a good six inches over Hobson, with shoulders that made Parker wonder how he'd ever fit through the front door! The giant took a step forward, grabbing Hobson by the front of his jacket, lifting him until his feet barely touched the floor. "What if I say different?" he growled.

To his credit, the barkeep never backed down. He lost a little color, and Parker could see his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed convulsively, but he stood his ground, looking the bully straight in the eye.

"Then I'll have to ask you to leave," Gary replied softly, his voice strained but steady. "There are people here with small kids, mister. Do you really want to start something in front of them? We both know you can take me apart without breaking a sweat. But what would it prove? Do you want to show everyone what a big man you are by giving little children nightmares?"

The big guy looked around uncertainly to see a mother holding a wide-eyed little girl close to her side. Next to her was a young boy just a year or two older than the girl. All three were staring at him in shocked silence.

"Do you have kids?" Gary asked, keeping his voice low. "Would you want *them* watching you beat up on someone half your size? Think about it. Is the thrill worth the price?"

Apparently not. Slowly, the giant lowered the barkeep to the floor and released his hold on the leather jacket. He then backed away, his bearded face flushed with embarrassment. "Sorry, mister," he grumbled. "I guess I sorta lost my head."

"No problem," Gary assured him. "You're welcome to stay as long as you behave yourself. Just please remember that these young ladies have to work for a living the same as you do. That entitles them to the same measure of respect, don't you think?"

The big man just nodded as he took his seat, unable to meet Gary's eyes. He mumbled an apology to Karen as he returned to his meal. Gary gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze then turned back to the bar.

"Show's over, people," he said with a shaky grin. "Enjoy your meals and have a drink and dessert on the house." As everyone cheered and turned to their menus, the giant flashed Gary a grateful smile. He no longer had to endure the fascinated stares of the other patrons.

"That was impressive," Frank remarked with a tight-lipped grin. It had been all he could do not to jump to Hobson's defense. He had to remind himself that Hobson was not going to die *tonight.* "You have to do that a lot?"

"No, thank God," Gary sighed. He started to pick up the beer Gene had set in front of him, only to find that his hands were shaking too bad. 

A fact that didn't escape Parker. "You were scared to death!" he murmured softly. "That guy scared the living crap outta you, and you still . . . He coulda killed you!"

"Tell me something I *don't* know," Gary replied in a tremulous voice. "I thought I was gonna have an accident back there. Of *both* kinds!" He cupped both hands over his mouth and heaved a deep sigh of relief. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I'm gonna have to call it a night. Gene, would you mind closing up?"

"No problem," the sandy haired bartender replied, solicitously. "You *look* beat! Lock up at the usual time?"

"Earlier if things slow down," Gary nodded wearily. He finally took a swig of his beer, then set the mug aside. "Nice meeting you, Mr. Parker. Come see us again while you're in town."

"I'll do that," Frank promised. As he watched Hobson limp toward the back rooms, he added a mental note to himself. 'You can bet the farm I'll be back, Gary Hobson. I've got way too many questions. And the answers keep raising more questions!'

************

Gary tested the water in the Jacuzzi with his hand as he finished getting undressed. Sliding into the swirling water, he breathed a sigh of relief. God! That felt good! As the barrage of bubbles massaged his aching muscles, he could feel the tension starting to ease. He leaned back with another sigh. Of all the changes wrought when Kovaleski had made his loft 'user friendly' after his accident, this had to be the best. 

As the water lulled him into a lethargic half doze, Gary kept thinking about the thing he had seen that morning in Lincoln Park. He couldn't have been the only one to have seen that bright flash! And why had no one else reported hearing the impact? Surely those living closer to the park than he did would've been rocked right out of their beds! It was strange that there was nothing about it in any of the papers or the TV news. Which only served to confirm his theory that it was a top-secret military device. They must've been tracking it pretty close to have covered it up so fast. He wondered at the purpose of such a machine.

Maybe he should call General Hammond? See if it was related to whatever they were working on in Cheyenne Mountain. 'Nah,' he decided. 'Best to stay out of it. I've had enough weirdness from that place.'

Which led his mind to the weird feeling he'd had all day. Like eyes drilling into the back of his neck. What was *that* all about? And why did he feel that this Parker guy was mixed up in all of this somehow? Gary knew that he had never seen the man before that night. So why did Parker look so familiar? Could he be connected to that thing in the park? Did he know Gary had seen the device, been checking it out? Was that why he mentioned it, to see how the barkeep would react? Gary sat straight up in the water as a chilling thought occurred to him. 

What if Parker had been the pilot? He could've been hiding somewhere close by, watching to make sure no one messed with the sphere. Had he followed Gary? Watched him to see if he told anyone else what he'd seen? If so, what did he make of the fact that Gary had made no such move? Was he relieved, or did he think it suspicious? Christ! What had Parker *seen?* 

Twice before, Gary had had this uncomfortable feeling of being watched. The first time had been little Henry Paget, Erica's son. He had stumbled onto one of Gary's more unusual rescues and gotten curious, ultimately leading to his discovery of the Paper. A discovery that had almost proved fatal for Henry's father. The second time had been when Gary's best friend, Chuck Fishman, had returned from Los Angeles and tried to get film of Gary in action in order to pitch an idea for a new TV series. An act of betrayal that had led to Gary embarrassing himself on the Jerry Springer show, almost gotten Chuck killed, and saved a group of cheerleaders from a fiery plane crash. Which, in turn, had led to Chuck producing a TV series about cheerleaders. 

Sometimes, the twists and turns his life kept taking left Gary feeling like a rat in an ever-changing maze. Just when he thought he had a lock on the situation, the rules changed and he was back to square one, usually with a humongous headache.

Finally, more than thirty-six hours without sleep had taken its toll. Gary felt his eyes grow heavy as a wave of exhaustion threatened to pull him under. Literally. Deciding he'd be better off sleeping on his mattress rather than in the tub, he reluctantly let the water drain as he toweled himself off and got ready for bed. Tomorrow was another day, and there was no telling what the cat might drag in.

************

Parker had remained in the bar until he was certain Hobson had truly retired for the night. It had only taken a few idle questions to learn that he lived in a loft above the bar. With, of all things, a cat. He would've figured a guy with Hobson's looks, and owning his own business, to be married or at least have a steady girlfriend. But he had been told that the poor guy's social life was, and this half joking remark had sent a chill up Parker's spine, a train wreck. The cat had arrived with Gary when he took over the bar. Frank wondered if it were the same orange feline that had sat watching *him* for over an hour. 

Frank had finally finished the beer he'd been nursing for the past hour and left. He'd then watched from across the street until the lights had gone out in the window upstairs. He found himself wondering what life was like for this man. 

Ever since joining Project Backstep, Frank had chaffed at being constantly watched. He'd wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Then he'd met Olga Vukavitch. The lovely redheaded physicist had captured his heart from the moment he'd first laid eyes on her. In that original timeline, they had started something. Something special. Then he had been sent back to stop a terrorist attack on the Capitol that would have killed more than just the President, his cabinet, and everyone else in the Whitehouse. The lethal nerve gas would also have slain all the children in a pre-school field trip. His son, Jimmy, was among those children.

When Parker had successfully completed the mission, saved the country from the turmoil of being politically leaderless, captured or killed the terrorists, and given his son a big hug, he had found Olga to be . . . different. She was colder and more distant. It had taken him a while to realize what had happened. The Russian beauty believed that he was merely using his knowledge of the future to 'push her buttons.' She was determined not to be just another 'notch on his bedpost.'

It had taken time, and quite often, Frank had been forced to start from scratch, but they now had a relationship built on mutual respect, trust, and a measure of physical attraction. He was also able to admit that he loved her. He couldn't imagine living his life without her.

Hobson's dossier mentioned that he had been married once, and that it had broken up shortly before he quit his job at a prominent brokerage firm. What had happened there? Had he been unable to climb the ladder of success fast enough to suit her needs? And why quit his job? How had he supported himself between leaving Strauss and Associates, and obtaining the title to McGinty's? That was another thing that bothered Frank. The way the bar, which at one point was scheduled for demolition, had just been handed to Hobson less than a week after he had been left homeless by a fire in his hotel.

The reports didn't go into any real depths as far as Hobson's social life went, and Frank had to wonder who Lindsay was. A steady girl or an ex? The NSA agent might never know. One thing he did know for sure, Hobson was no terrorist. The man had spent half the day saving other people from harm. That just did *not* fit with the sort of mindset that would bring about the kind of devastation that Frank was there to prevent. In fact, Gary Hobson had to be one of the nicest guys Frank had ever met.

*********

"The Panel has made its decision, Frank," Talmadge told him when he reported in. "Find out everything you can about Hobson, especially how he's able to predict these events so accurately. If he can be of any service to the program, they want him brought into the fold. One way or another."

Frank sank back against the headboard with a sigh of resignation. He'd hoped to avoid this by deliberately downplaying Hobson's role in the earlier report, but he was already on record in regards to September 11th. 

"I take it that means we aren't going to warn anyone about the train wreck," he grumbled.

"That's correct," Talmadge sighed. "I know it's taking a big risk, Frank, but we have to be able to track Hobson's actions leading up to that event. We have to know how it happened, and how he knew it was *going* to happen."

"But you weren't there, Bradley," Parker pointed out. "You didn't see what those bastards did to him. And that was hours *before* the wreck! I don't want to take a chance of losing sight of him. Is Craig on his way, yet?"

"He leaves first thing in the morning," was the welcome reply.

"Great," Frank sighed. "I need him to bring me some things. And, if the Panel wants Hobson so bad, they'd better okay the expense. The man is no good to anyone if he's dead."

*********

Wednesday Feb 20 0630 hrs - Chicago, Illinois

Gary rolled over and slapped the snooze button on the clock/radio in the middle of the traffic report. Odds were he'd end up either walking, running, or taking the EL anyway.

"Wrowwrr!"

Plop.

Sigh. Showtime.

*********

Frank found a position from which he could watch both exits from the bar, and enjoy his espresso as he waited for Hobson to make his first appearance of the day. He had no idea what to expect, so he had been waiting patiently since dawn and needed the caffeine to stay awake. 

His vigilance paid off as Hobson came out the front door at a brisk walk. He had a newspaper in his hands that he kept glancing at from time to time as he hurried down the street. After the first couple of blocks, he rolled it up and stuck it inside his jacket. Tossing his empty cup into a nearby trashcan, Frank followed no more than half a block behind, but not so close that his quarry would be able to spot him right away. 

**********

Gary had to hurry to get to the school crossing before little Jessica Barclay stepped off the curb. He snagged her by the strap of her backpack just as the delivery van came barreling around the corner. The driver looked up from his radio dial at that precise moment and slammed on his brakes! He screeched to a halt two feet past the white lines of the school crossing. Little Jessica would've been toast!

As Jessica's friends crowded around her, oo-ing and ah-ing at her brush with death, and the driver jumped out to assure himself that she was all right, Gary quietly faded into the background. The child was safe, and she seemed more excited about what had happened than frightened. His presence was no longer necessary.

Gary couldn't help lingering a moment, only turning away when someone finally recalled the hand that had seemingly come out of nowhere to snatch the child from the brink of disaster. He stuck both hands in his pockets and hurried back the way he had come.

********

Frank watched Hobson watching the children. The look on his face was one of such longing! It was a look that Parker imagined he himself wore on those times he could only watch his child from a distance. The reports mentioned nothing about children. Was that one of Hobson's dreams? To be a father and a family man? What was stopping him?

Ducking out of sight, Parker watched as the object of his surveillance turned and strolled back the way he had come. He was in no hurry, now, and not really watching where he was going. Hobson stopped to watch a couple holding hands as they gazed through the window of a jewelry store. Without saying a word, or indicating in any way that he knew them, he stuck his hands in his pockets and walked on. A few minutes later, he returned through the front door of McGinty's. 

Frank could not recall *ever* having seen anyone look so . . . alone.

*********

Parker jumped as his reverie was interrupted by a trilling chirrup. Cursing softly, he pulled out his cell phone. He'd forgotten to set it on vibrate. Good thing it hadn't gone off while he'd been trailing Hobson.

"Yeah?"

"Frank? It's Craig," the voice at the other end identified itself. "Where are you?"

"Half a block north of Illinois and Franklin," Frank murmured softly. "Hobson just got back from taking a walk. You?"

"Just leaving O'Hare. I've got everything you asked for," was the welcome report. "The big shots must want this guy bad. They flew me first class," he added with a dry chuckle. "You *will* tell me what this is all about when I get there, right?"

"Talmadge or Ramsey didn't tell you?" Frank asked, surprised. It wasn't like them to keep any of the team in the dark about a mission.

"Not a word," Donovan sighed. "They said you'd fill me in when we meet up."

Frank glanced over at the door to McGinty's with a sigh of frustration. He was going to have to break off his surveillance for now. 

"Pick me up at the corner of Ohio and Franklin," he said. "There're some things I left at the hotel you'll need to see."

*********

Frank tossed the newspaper on the bed, the front page showing a horrifying picture of the coming tragedy. 

"Over two hundred and fifty people will die," Parker told his friend. "Sixty more will be maimed for life. Two people in the very last car of the regular passenger train will escape unharmed. *Everyone* in the Vice Presidential train will die. Hobson will collapse in my arms before the trains even hit." He turned to page six and the gruesome photo. "He dies later that evening, from injuries he apparently received in a 'mugging.'" He went on to describe Hobson's bizarre behavior, his incoherent ramblings as he slipped into unconsciousness. "The big brass thinks that he's either connected with the people behind it somehow, or he had some kind of . . . premonition."

"And you don't go with the terrorist theory," Donovan nodded. 

"Nothing about the guy fits that scenario," the chrononaut sighed. "I mean, look at this picture," he added, turning to the obituaries. "Everything about it screams 'boy scout.' He stood up to a bully nearly twice his size last night, and made the guy back down. When it was over, his hands were shaking so bad he couldn't pick up a beer mug. I watched him save over half a dozen people from death or serious injury yesterday, and at least one more today. God only knows what he's doing as we speak. And . . . God! Craig, I just . . ." He jumped up and started pacing the narrow space between the bed and dresser. "This is so weird, 'cause you were right there a-and you weren't. You don't remember the way he was begging us to stop what was about to happen. The way he . . . he cried, just broke down and *cried* like a baby, because he was too late. Does that sound like a cold-blooded terrorist to you?"

Craig sank onto the bed with a sigh, unable to take his eyes from the paper. He kept flipping the pages back and forth between Hobson smiling, and Hobson dying. The contrast was heart wrenching.

"No, it doesn't," he murmured. "So what's his tie-in with these people? If they weren't behind the wreck, why this? Why kill a man in this manner? Also, if Hobson* isn't* connected to these people, how did he know about the wreck to begin with? *None* of this makes any sense!"

**********

Gary stretched out on his sofa with a weary sigh. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was just a little before noon. After saving little Jessica, he'd had time for a quick shower and a cup of coffee on the fly before having to tear over to Michigan Avenue to stop a construction worker from falling ten floors onto a mound of debris, then to run six more blocks to keep Dan Puckett from being mauled by his neighbor's dog. Shortly after that, Gary was hanging onto Joey Hancock for dear life as they dangled from the ledge of a derelict apartment building. The ten year old runaway was now safely in the hands of Social Services. And Gary was beat. In between these 'high points,' had been the usual assortment of 'minor' incidents. 

Actually they'd been tragic accidents that were so easily prevented that it was pathetic. Grabbing a guy by the elbow to keep him from walking through a pane of plate glass about to be installed in a department store window. Covering an open manhole before the skater, who was watching the slender brunette with the dazzling smile, could fall in and break his neck. Playing traffic cop for a few minutes to quell a case of 'road rage.' The guy had no idea how lucky he was. That tiny blonde would've kicked his butt all the way to Intensive Care! Then had been the choking incident at the Starbuck's a few blocks away. Didn't anyone take time to chew their food anymore? Granted, bagels could be a little tough . . .

It all added up to an exhausting morning. At least he hadn't been plagued with that persistent 'itch' at the back of his neck since right after saving little Jessica. And he had been too distracted, then, to pay it any mind. Just the sight of children, lately, left him with a feeling of . . . melancholy, for want of a better word. One of the dreams he had nurtured during his brief marriage had been to have kids. Just a couple would've been fine, but he'd have been just as happy with a houseful. Now, he knew it would be unfair to impose his erratic lifestyle on a wife and children. But, the dream was one that did not easily let go.

"Mrr-rr-rr?"

Gary turned his head just enough to look at the animal perched on the coffee table out of the corner of his eye.

"Don't I even get lunch?" he grumbled.

The cat leaped onto Gary's stomach and began pawing at the paper sticking out of his jacket. Sitting up with a low growl of frustration, Gary pulled out the mystic periodical and began skimming the headlines. There was still more than two hours before he had to stop that fire in Greektown. There was nothing he could do about the stalled elevator until just before it happened, and *that* wasn't going to be until 4:45 PM! In fact, the only thing he had before two-thirty was . . . Gary looked at the article about the runaway horse in Lincoln Park. It reminded him of that weird sphere he'd seen the morning before. And that reminded him of Parker for some reason. Why could he not shake the feeling that he knew Frank Parker from somewhere? And what was his connection to that blue sphere? What was his interest in Gary?

Gary rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand as he felt the first signs of a headache coming on. And it promised to be a doozy! 

*********

Washing down a couple of aspirin with a swig of soda, Gary took one bite of his sandwich and headed for the door. The Paper had added a hit and run just three blocks away. A metallic blue Toyota Corolla was going to strike an, as yet, unidentified African-American male in his mid-thirties. Gary had less than ten minutes to get to the scene. Why did the article not show up earlier, before he'd started fixing a meal which was now left sitting on his counter? Gary had a sneaking suspicion the cat was taking advantage of him. He had noticed that the orange tabby was starting to look a little chunky, lately.

Taking the stairs a lot faster than he considered safe, Gary bolted through the kitchen and out of the back door of McGinty's. In his haste, he failed to notice Frank Parker lounging on a bench in front of the restaurant across the street. 

The NSA agent had a good view of both the front door and the alley behind the bar from that position. The instant Hobson burst out of the back door, Parker leaped to his feet and hurried after his quarry. He spotted Hobson ducking into the alley running north toward West Grand, barely keeping him in sight as the barkeep made a quick right, then dashed across the street at the corner, still heading east. Parker had to wait for a break in the traffic before he could cross, almost losing sight of his target. He watched as Hobson made a quick left, running north on LaSalle. Was he heading toward the hotel? Frank recalled telling him where he was staying. But why the urgency?

Gary was running all out, now. He made the turn onto Ohio without falling only by grabbing onto the lamppost at the corner. Chest heaving, he looked around for someone who fit the description of the man in the Paper. There! A tall, athletic-looking black man was just coming out of the hotel. He paused, looked around, then started toward the far corner. Gary ran to catch up with him. As he watched, the man stepped up to the corner, looked both ways, and stepped into the street. He was apparently headed for the Rainforest Café. 

The metallic blue car came barreling around the corner on two wheels! Gary poured everything he had into a burst of speed, at the same time screaming out a warning at the top of his lungs! As the car drew closer, Gary launched himself at the man, tackling him hard enough to send both of them rolling out of the way of the speeding car. Seconds later, a police cruiser, sirens blaring, came speeding around the same corner as the Toyota.

Frank came on the scene just as the two men went rolling across the pavement, out of harm's way. Hobson had, in effect, wrapped himself protectively around the other man, taking the brunt of the damage as they tumbled into the curb. Dazed, Gary lay where he had fallen, moving his arms and legs gingerly. The man Hobson had just rescued was the first to sit up. Shaking his head, Craig Donovan reached down to help a breathless Hobson to his feet. The barkeep sat up on his own, waving the hand away as he tried to catch his breath. 

"Are you okay?" Donovan was asking as Frank ran up to join them.

"F-fine," Gary wheezed. "Y-you?"

"Man, you just saved my life!" Donovan replied, shaking his head in astonishment. "I didn't even see it coming!"

"That was incredible!" Frank said as he ran up. "I saw the whole . . . It was awesome! Are you okay, Donovan? Man, Hobson! How did you know? I mean . . . how *could* you know?"

Still winded from the mad dash to get there, Gary stared at Parker. 

"Wh-what . . . what're you . . .?" He looked up at the marquee of the hotel, comprehension penetrating his oxygen starved brain. "Y-you're staying . . . here?"

"Um, yeah," Parker admitted. "I told you that, remember?"

"G-guess I f-forgot," Gary panted. He started to get to his feet, wincing as a spasm of pain shot up his spine. "Aw, crap!" he hissed, rubbing at his lower back. "I don't seem to b-bounce as well as I used to. I guess I c-could use that hand, now," he added, reaching out to Donovan.

Parker took his other hand and, between them, they managed to help Hobson to his feet without too much stress on his aching back. Gary stood there, leaning against a parking meter as he fought to get his breathing under control. 

"How'd you know?" Parker asked again. "There's no way you coulda seen it coming. You came running from the south. That car came around the corner from the *north!* How did you know?"

Gary just looked at the two men helplessly. There was no way he could answer that. Not without telling them about the Paper. And he wasn't about to do that. Glancing at his watch, Gary saw he still had more than an hour before he needed to go to Lincoln Park. He glanced over at the place where the man he'd just saved had been headed, then back to the others.

"I haven't had lunch, yet," he said. "You guys hungry?"

**********

"I saw you running like a bat outta hell over a block away," Parker told the man seated before him. "On Grand, which is a block in the *other* direction! How could you know that car was coming, or that it would come barreling around the corner as my friend was crossing the street?"

Gary settled back with a sigh, grimacing as his sore back came in contact with the wicker seat. He was still trying to come up with a plausible explanation for what he had just done. The trouble was, he couldn't think of anything even *remotely* feasible! If Parker hadn't seen him running and followed him, Gary would have tried his usual 'right place, right time,' shtick. But Parker *had* seen him, so that was out. Finally, he just threw up his hands in surrender.

"I don't know how to explain it." At least that much was the truth. "I just . . . Wh-what would you guys like? My treat. The chicken fried steak is pretty good. O-or the fish. Th-they have *great* fish sandwiches, here."

"Leave the man alone, Frank," Donovan chuckled. "He just saved my life! Don't you think it's a little rude to interrogate him? And lunch is *my* treat. I insist." It was hard not to notice how tense Hobson got anytime they broached the subject of that miraculous rescue. The guy cringed every time Frank brought it up. 

The waiter came, took their orders, and the three of them suddenly found themselves with nothing to talk about. 

"S-so," Gary finally stammered after a long minute of silence. "Wh-where are you guys from? I-I'm from Indiana, myself. A, ahm, a little place called Hickory."

"Philadelphia," Frank nodded. "Born and bred. So, how did you end up with your own bar at your age? Win the lottery, or something?"

"I-it's a long story," Gary murmured uncomfortably. "I-I guess you could say I made a few good investments. Y-you gonna be in town long? The Bulls are playing the Lakers this weekend."

Donovan shook his head with a grin at Parker's crestfallen look. "We have to be in D.C. Saturday morning. Parker's son is in his first pageant. We're hoping no emergencies crop up in the meantime."

"E-emergencies?" Gary asked. "Are you guys doctors or something?" 

"Nnno," Donovan chuckled. "We're security consultants. We help develop better mousetraps. They call us every time one of our systems gets breeched. Last week we were called all the way to L.A. because a mouse chewed through one of the circuits and shorted out the whole system."

"I-is that why you're in Chicago?" Gary asked, trying to sound casual. "Business?"

"Partly," Frank admitted. Might as well mix at least a *grain* of truth in with the lie. "Our company decided to give us a treat and hold one of those 'empowerment' seminars during Chinese New Year, so that we could mix a little pleasure into the deal. Which works out great for me, as it puts me just a coupla hours by plane away from my kid."

As soon as Donovan had first mentioned that Parker had a son, Frank had noticed that wistful look in the barkeep's eyes. He could see that Hobson was dying to ask about the boy. It seemed only natural for a proud father to want to share his joy, so Frank pulled out the latest pictures Patricia had given him just before the pageant that never happened. Which was a little disconcerting as he had yet to see her and obtain the photos.

Gary studied the photos with a mixed look of pain and amusement at the candid antics of the child.

"He looks like a great kid," he murmured, handing back the photos. "You must be really proud. Do you get to see him much?"

"Not as much as I'd like," Frank admitted. "His mother and I are divorced. Are you married? Any kids?"

"No and no," Gary shrugged, shifting his napkin around with the tip of his finger. "I was, then I came home on our anniversary and found the locks had been changed. The next thing I know, I'm dodging suitcases. Mine. So much for my fixing a romantic dinner. I even brought roses."

"Ouch!" Donovan winced sympathetically. "And you thought it was bad when Patricia told you she was going home to mother," he added to Frank. "At least *you* had a little warning. So she let you keep the bar?" he added, turning back to face Hobson.

"I didn't luck into that 'til a year or so later," Gary admitted. "I just . . . None of it meant anything without her so, I let her have everything. I mean, yeah, I coulda contested the divorce. Her grounds were totally . . . 'irreconcilable differences,' my great aunt's fanny! The first I know we have any differences is when she's getting ready to marry my ex-boss! *Then* she decides we need to talk! I-I guess I've been a little gun-shy ever since."

The waiter brought their lunches, and the three men swapped a little more small talk, with Gary continuously steering the conversation away from the rescue. Frank had to bite his lip a few times to keep from laughing at his clumsy attempts at misdirection. The guy had to be the absolute worst liar he'd ever met!

Shortly after their dishes were cleared, Gary glanced at his watch. With a start, he realized he only had twenty minutes to get all the way to the lower end of Lincoln Park! Still staring at the dial of his watch, Gary got up from the table, almost knocking his chair over in the process.

"Um, s'cuse me, guys," he said. "I, um, I hate to eat and run, b-but I have this . . . this . . . I have to see a lady about a horse. Bye."

With that, he grabbed his jacket and scrambled for the exit. While Donovan paid the check, Frank hurried after Hobson. He got out the door just as the other man was hailing a cab. Parker was just close enough to hear Hobson tell the cabbie he needed to be at the junction of LaSalle and Clark in Lincoln Park in less than fifteen minutes. As the cab drove out of sight, Frank managed to flag another one just as Craig joined him.

"What could be so urgent at Lincoln Park?" Frank murmured softly, well aware that the cabbie could hear everything they might say. "The clean-up crew did a thorough job yesterday. You can't even find a divot missing from the lawn."

"It may not have anything to do with that," Donovan reminded him. "I'd like to know why he never mentioned it to anyone. You said he was curious enough to look it over as close as he dared. Why not try to find out who it belonged to?"

"The man *does* know how to keep secrets," Frank admitted with open admiration. "And he should try out for the Olympics! It was all I could do to keep up with him earlier! Look! There he is!" He told the cab to pull over and paid the fare. Then the two of them ran to catch up with their prey.

Gary was running up to a young man leading a group of student riders along one of the bridle paths. He said something, money changed hands, and the instructor slid to the ground and handed Gary the reins to his horse. In one smooth motion, Hobson swung into the saddle, slid his feet into the stirrups and flicked the reins. The horse took off like Secretariat from the starting gate! 

Frank spotted a couple of guys on motorcycles and waved his badge at them. After only token resistance, one of them handed over his bike, doubling up with his friend. Frank drove, while Donovan rode pillion, and they took off after the rapidly disappearing horse. They lost sight of him, temporarily, when he jumped the horse over a wide ditch, clearing it with deceptive ease.

Less than five minutes later, they spotted him racing beside another horse. The rider, a slender blonde, was hanging on to the saddle horn for dear life! The horse was obviously out of control. Hobson maneuvered his horse as close as he could, reached down and snagged the wildly flopping rein. Straightening up, he eased back on his own reins, gradually slowing both horses. As the two agents continued to hang back, he brought them to a halt and dismounted. Hobson helped the terrified woman to do the same, then held her as she clung to him for support. When she could stand on her own, he checked her horse over, removed something from under the back of the saddle and showed it to her. Neither Parker nor Donovan could hear a word they said, but they saw the woman give Hobson a peck on the cheek. She then took her reins and led the sweat soaked roan back the way she had come. Hobson remounted and headed back toward the hidden agents.

Frank backed the motorcycle farther into a copse of trees, staying out of sight. When Hobson was no longer in sight, they left the bike and ran after the woman.

"Lady," Frank gasped as they caught up with her. "We just saw what happened. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," the woman assured them. "My horse just got a twig from one of my own rose bushes caught under the saddle pad, and I lost control when he bolted. If that nice man hadn't 've happened along when he did, I could've fallen and been seriously injured. I hope he didn't hurt himself. He seemed to be in a lot of pain."

Frank and Craig exchanged disbelieving glances. 

"Do you need someone to walk you home?" Donovan asked.

"Oh, no," the woman smiled. "Thank you for offering, but as I told the man who saved me, I just live across the street. Thank God he showed up when he did. I could've broken my neck if we'd made it into those trees! Well, I have to go finish my laundry and get dinner ready. You gentlemen have a nice day, and thank you for your concern." With that she hurriedly led her horse away.

As the woman hurried on her way, the two agents let their eyes trail from the area she had indicated to the spot where Hobson had intersected her. 

"She couldn't have been on that horse more than four or five minutes," Donovan murmured. "Hobson knew about it for at least twenty. Frank, I'm getting a headache."

"C'mon," Parker sighed, leading his friend back to the motorcycle. "We can go break out a bottle of Tylenol. Maximum strength."

**********

After returning the horse to the riding instructor, Gary caught a cab and sped to Greektown, where it only took a moment to extinguish a kitchen fire in a little 'Mom and Pop' restaurant. That left him with almost two hours before he had to be at the Randolph Building. That gave him a little time to do something about his aching back.

Laying a towel over the layer of ice bags, Gary turned and eased down onto the sofa with a sigh of relief. Ten minutes or so ought to do it, he hoped. That wild tumble he'd taken to rescue Donovan had really hurt! It'd taken a lot out of him to sit through lunch as if nothing was wrong. Then had come that jolting ride through the park. He had come within an ace of passing out when he'd leaned over to grasp those reins! 

In just a few minutes Gary could feel a big difference in the level of pain radiating down to his legs. Ever since that tumble he had taken down his stairs almost two years ago, he had been warned not to put any undue stress on his spine. An order easier to give than it was to obey. Many times since, literally, getting back on his feet, Gary had been put through a great deal of 'undue stress,' including getting the crap beat out of him by an escaped con just a few months before. More than once, actually. The first time he'd been dumped in a stall with a frightened horse, who had done a *real* number on his back. He'd also been shot several times in the past year, broken both arms, had recently recovered from pneumonia, and even had the chicken pox! So far, he was still mobile, but he had to wonder how long his luck would hold.

A loud, rattling knock on the door interrupted Gary's painful reminiscing. With a sigh, he rolled off of his jerry-rigged therapy bed, and struggled to his feet. He looked toward the door and hung his head with a groan of frustration. It was Parker and Donovan. What did *they* want?

Stifling another groan, Gary limped to the door and opened it just a crack. The two men stood there, smiling hesitantly. Parker kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he waited for Gary to say something.

"C-can I help you guys?" Gary stammered.

"We just came by to see how you were doing," Parker shrugged. "You were lookin' a little green when you ran out. Is your leg still bothering you?"

"No," Gary sighed. "I-I just have a-a little problem with my back now and then. I-I'm okay. Sorry if . . . if I messed up your lunch, b-but I had this . . . this *thing* I had t-to take care of."

"Uh-huh," Donovan nodded with a tight-lipped smile. "Something about a lady and a horse?"

"Um, yeah," Gary murmured, stepping aside to let them in. "C'mon in a-and have a seat," he told them. He quickly hobbled over to gather up the bags of half melted ice from the sofa. "S-sorry about this," he mumbled. "Ice i-is good for the swelling. C-can I get you anything? S-something to drink, maybe?"

"We're fine," Donovan shrugged as he strolled in behind their host. Looking around, his eyes narrowed at something he spied near the wall opposite the bed. Giving Frank a nudge in the ribs, he pointed at the items with his chin. "Nice treadmill," he said aloud. "Get a lot of use out of it?"

"N-not so much, lately," Gary winced as he gingerly lowered himself into his easy chair. "Just when it rains, mostly. H-helps to . . . to keep me in shape."

"And the wheelchair?" Frank asked. "That's a street model. It's made for people who . . . well, who use 'em on a permanent basis."

Gary looked over at the object in question with a barely concealed shudder. "Th-that was . . . I-I had an accident a coupla years ago," he admitted. "You guys didn't come up here just to ask about my health and get a medical history, did you? 'Cause I'm fine, honest. Th-the wheelchair is . . . it's ancient history."

"Say that without biting your lower lip," Frank commented dryly, "and I might believe you. How long you been outta the chair?"

"Almost a year," Gary grumbled. "L-look, is there something specific I can help you with? 'Cause I got places I need to be soon."

"Anything we can help you with?" Craig asked. 

Gary started to reply with a firm 'no' before a thought occurred to him.

"Do either of you know anything about elevators?"

********


	2. Echoes Of The Past

WEDNESDAY FEB 20 1630 HRS - CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

Gary unknowingly led the way up the stairwell to the thirteenth floor of the Randolph Building. Normally, he would have preferred to use the elevator, especially as his back was giving him a fit. But he knew how chancy that could be. More than once, he'd changed a headline by effectively changing places with the victims. Considering the circumstances, he didn't think that would be a good idea in this case. The elevator was about to plunge thirteen floors down to the basement. Ten people would be killed instantly.

Donovan and Parker had been unable to come up with any constructive ideas as to how to prevent such a disaster, and were curious as to why Gary had even asked. They had finally made some excuse and said their goodbyes, then waited in a position to watch both exits. When Hobson had come running out a little after four o'clock, they had followed at a discreet distance. He had almost lost them when he caught the bus, but they managed to grab a cab and keep up. Barely.

Gary burst through the fire door just as the ad executive hit the call button. As the lights counted down from the upper floors, Gary counted heads. Six. He only counted six! That meant that there had to be four already on the elevator! 

"E-excuse me," he gasped as he skidded to a halt next to the panel of buttons. "I-I'm afraid you can't use this car. W-we have to take it o-outta service . . . f-for repairs on the automatic brakes." He waved a hand at the door to the stairwell. "I-I'm afraid I hafta . . . ta ask ya to take the stairs."

"Thirteen floors?" a portly woman asked. "Are you out of your mind? What about one of the other cars?"

"L-lady," Gary panted, leaning forward as he fought for breath, "I j-just . . . ran *up* those stairs . . . to warn you. Wh-whadda you think?"

Wordlessly, the six people filed for the door. A moment later, the doors opened to show four more people looking bored and ready to knock off early. Gary quickly herded them out of the car and toward the stairs, glancing at his watch as the last one stepped clear. 'Three, two, one,' he counted to himself. On zero, there was a horrendous groan of tortured metal on metal as the cables began to slip. A moment later, as the four he had just rescued watched in stunned silence, the car fell a couple of feet before jerking to a halt. A few seconds later, it lurched again.

"I think you should all step . . ." Gary began.

The cables gave a shriek, and then parted with a loud series of snaps. As the four stared on, the car disappeared from view. Less than a minute later, there was a resounding *crash* as the bulky conveyance hit bottom.

". . . back," Gary finished with a grimace. 

He gently, but hurriedly urged everyone toward the stairs, saying that he had to block the other cars. Which he then proceeded to do by calling all the cars to that floor, wedging the doors open and slapping 'out of order' signs on each of them. Anyone he found in a car was quickly escorted off and directed toward the stairs. Soon, his task was done. 

As the two agents watched from just inside the door to the stairwell, Gary slumped against the wall with an explosive sigh. He remained that way for a few minutes as he let the rush of adrenaline fade from his system. Finally he stood and looked around the empty hallway. He appeared to be the only one on the floor. Wiping his palms on his thighs, he stepped away from the wall and turned back toward the stairwell. Frank nudged Craig back from the door and the two eased down a few steps, prepared to bolt if necessary. When more than a minute passed and Hobson had not appeared, they returned to their observation post to see if something had gone wrong. 

Hobson was standing in front of an office on the eastern side of the building. He kept rubbing his hands on his jeans in a nervous gesture as he stared at the open reception area. Moving like an automaton, he took a few tentative steps forward before coming to his senses. Stepping back with a haunted look on his face, Gary turned so suddenly, the two agents barely had time to duck.

Racing down the stairs as quietly as possible, the agents ducked out on the second floor and waited until Hobson finally walked past them. He was not in any hurry, now, taking the steps one at a time and still wearing a distracted, weary look. They followed to see Gary pause at the door leading to the ground floor lobby. He peered cautiously out the door before finally going through. It was almost as if he didn't want to be seen by the excited people milling around the elevator shaft. The wrecked car had apparently caused quite a commotion.

Gary nonchalantly strolled out the side door, on out to the street and hopped onto the next trolley to be headed his direction. Even from his position just inside the doors to the Randolph Building, Parker could see that the man was hurting. He kept rubbing at his back, trying to ease a persistent ache. After the day that Hobson had put in, Frank didn't wonder that he was in pain.

After a brief stop back home, where he apparently freshened up and put on a suit and tie, they followed him to a Japanese restaurant on Ontario St, where he met up with a stocky, white haired man in his sixties. They were escorted to a private room, where the two agents lost sight of them. 

"There's no way we can follow him in there and not be seen," Craig sighed. "And I don't think we should push the coincidence thing too far."

"With this guy," Frank murmured, "I don't think the word 'coincidence' has any meaning. You're right, though. No sense in pushing our luck. Why don't we go on down to that Chop House down the street? I could do with a good steak. Besides, we need to get Ramsey to check out that office Hobson was so fascinated with. I'll just bet he has some kinda history with that place."

*******

Gary slid into the corner of the booth and picked up his menu. 'The shrimp kogane yaki sounds good,' he decided. 

"So, when do I meet this Evans guy," Zeke Crumb grumbled as he poured over his copy of the menu. "Before or after we eat?"

"He had to pick up his parents at the airport," Gary told him distractedly. Suddenly he wasn't seeing the menu. Instead, he was back on the thirteenth floor of the Randolph Building. He gave himself a shake as he jerked his mind back to the present. "H-his girl friend is joining us, too. He just wants to go over the details of the investigative branch of the Foundation. Now that Chaste and Rossellini have been convicted, the bank in Switzerland is releasing the rest of the funds, and requests are already pouring in. Ya know," he added, laying aside his menu for the moment, "it's amazing how many people there are with no clue where they come from! Jake needs to know what you'll need as far as office equipment, computer set-ups, communications, the works. And start-up capital. You can't be expected to do all the work yourself. You'll need a staff. A-and office personnel! You'll need secretaries and a receptionist. Someone to schedule your appointments, at least!"

"Whoa!" Crumb pleaded. "Slow down, Hobson! The check hasn't even been written, yet! Jeez! You're worse than that guy goin' around knockin' down windmills, for cryin' out loud! Always lookin' for someone ta rescue. Why can't you just kick back and enjoy some o' your reward? Like a normal . . . Are you even listenin' ta me?"

Gary wasn't. At that moment he was staring wide-eyed toward the door. A nervously smiling Jake Evans was escorting a tall, angular woman into the dining room. He was closely followed by a beautiful woman with thick red hair on the arm of . . . Crumb. Stunned, Gary looked from his dinner companion, and back to the man with Jake. At almost the same instant Jake spotted him and waved, his smile of relief slowly faltering to a look that mirrored Gary's.

Crumb looked up to see what had so thoroughly captured Hobson's attention . . . at the same moment that the rest of the party saw him. Slowly, the detective stood to meet the newcomers. 'Dear God!' was his first thought. 'Another Hobson!' His eyes widened even more as he saw *his own* mirror image almost on the other Gary's heels! The four men stood staring at each other as the two women looked on in stunned amazement.

"Gary Hobson, Marion Crumb," Jake sighed, being the first to recover, "I'd like you to meet my girl friend, Joan Gallagher, and my parents, Howard and Marie Evans. Looks like we have a *lot* to talk about."

**********

Four antacid tablets plopped into two glasses of water. Gary and Jake waited until most of the fizzing had stopped before clinking their glasses together. 

"To survival," Jake sighed. "God! If . . . if my dad had shared his 'philosophy of life' one more time . . . A-and can you believe the resemblance between those two? It's incredible! I-it's impossible for two unrelated men to . . . to look that much alike!"

"Um, Jake," Gary murmured with a tired grin, "should we go find a mirror?"

"That's different, and you know it," Jake snorted as he sipped at his antacid. "You were the one that found a connection, remember?"

Gary shuddered as he did, indeed, recall the incidents leading up to the discovery of their mutual ancestors. Jake saw this and instantly regretted his rash words. Gary had almost died in that discovery. Three times if they counted that bout of pneumonia he'd endured after saving the family that had Captain Gary Chandler's saddle in their private collection. 

"Sorry, cousin," Jake murmured. "I almost forgot. I've been meaning to ask how things were going on that end."

"Pretty good," Gary assured him. "I'm having those pictures enlarged into posters, and the same with the letter. I'm also having copies made for anyone that would like a memento. But the medal, the saddle, and the original of the photo with President Lincoln are going on display at the American History Museum. I've even had a call from the White House about that picture. What do you think the twins would say to letting it hang in the Lincoln Room of the White House?" he asked with a tired grin.

"Whew!" Jake whistled. "You could call them up and ask, but I already know what they'll say. You were the one that bled for that picture. It's your decision. I don't know that I could pass it up, though. That's a hell of an honor."

The picture they referred to was of their mutual ancestor, Gary Martin Chandler, Captain in the Union army, receiving a medal from President Abraham Lincoln on the very last day of the President's life. It was taken by one Matthew Brady. 

"They want to buy it, though," Gary sighed. "And they're offering a handsome price." He named a figure that caused Jake to choke on his Alka-Seltzer.

"My God!" he wheezed. "For one picture? I don't know who's crazier! Them for offering or you for hesitating!"

"It's not that simple," Gary protested. "If all that mattered was the money, we never would've started the Foundation. It's a piece of history. *Our* history! I might let 'em display it, but it has to stay in the family." He drained his glass and set it down with a grimace. "Crumb and your dad. I still can't get over that," he chuckled. 

"That's the first time I've ever seen *both* my parents speechless," Jake admitted with a rueful smile. "I think *we* kinda blew Mom's mind, too. She not only saw two of me, she also saw two of Dad! But Joanie was a real sport about it."

"Yeah," Gary nodded. "She was. It was great the way she kept making jokes and tryin' to get everyone to relax. Then offering to drive your folks home so we could talk. You said she's a school teacher?"

"Um," Jake replied. "High school history. And she's good at it. The kids love her."

Gary watched his cousin as he talked about his girlfriend. It was obvious how he felt about her. Something was noticeably wrong, though. Something that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Then it hit him and he felt a sudden kinship with Jake that had nothing to do with blood.

"She said no, didn't she?" Gary murmured.

Jake shot his cousin a bemused look. "You read minds now, too?" he chuckled. "Yeah, I kinda moved too fast. We'd only known each other six weeks and I guess I scared the crap outta her. She's not used to the idea that someone can love her for who she is."

"She'll come around someday," Gary shrugged. "Just let her know how you feel and be patient."

"Did that work for you?" Jake asked 

"No," Gary sighed. "But there's a difference. My wife turned out not to be in love with me so much as what I represented. Escape from a domineering father."

"And there hasn't been anyone else since?"

Gary thought of a lovely, spirited woman with auburn hair and hazel eyes. For a fleeting instant he wondered what she might be doing at that moment. Then he thought of the tiny Italian with the volcanic temper, and wondered if she had shot anyone lately. 

"One or two maybes," he finally shrugged, not meeting his cousin's troubled gaze. "But things 've gotten . . . complicated. I guess it just wasn't meant to be."

********* 

"Here it is," Frank murmured as he leafed through the Hobson file. "Sometime in the early hours of May 20th he was found at the bottom of his staircase. Man! He really did a number on himself! They had to transfuse . . . does the human body *hold* that much blood?"

Craig looked at the entry his friend was pointing to and let out a surprised whistle. "A little more than that, but not much. I'm surprised he had enough to keep his heart beating!"

Frank picked up a grim looking document, reading it carefully before handing it to Craig. "He didn't," the NSA agent replied solemnly. "They already had the death certificate filled out. All it lacks is a signature. Jesus, Donovan! The guy came back almost fifteen minutes after they called the time!"

"That's impossible," Donovan grumbled, grabbing the file. "The brain dies in less than *ten* minutes without oxygen!" He quickly scanned through the medical reports. "I wish we had one of the base medics to translate some of this. Talk about living on borrowed time! This guy's in the hole *big time!* What about earlier? Do we have anything that mentions the Randolph Building?"

"This is all Ramsey had time to dig up before the jump," Frank shrugged. "He gave this to me as we were getting ready to launch. Except for public records and income taxes, this only goes back to the fall of '96. And there are gaps. See? This police report, here, begins with Hobson saving some editor at the Sun-Times from a letter bomb. Yet, just a day or so later, he's wanted for questioning in the same guy's murder! Why would Hobson save someone just to kill him? And why does it end there? Was he questioned and released? Obviously he wasn't charged. And why run if he wasn't hiding something?"

"The more we learn about this guy," Craig growled, "the less we know." He looked at his watch. "Ramsey should still be up. Let's give him a call and see if he can fill in the gaps."

"Right," Parker nodded. He held up a tiny object between his thumb and forefinger. It was perfectly round, flat, and about the size of his pinky nail. "Then we can figure out how to plant this on 'im. I don't know about you, but I'm getting tired of chasin' this guy all over the city. The only time he's gonna be in any real danger is Saturday morning."

"And what was this afternoon?" Donovan snorted. "A romp in the park?"

**********

Thursday Feb 21 0630 hrs - Chicago, Illinois

Gary rolled over and slapped the alarm. He already knew what the weather was going to be like today. The three-day forecast in yesterday's . . . today's Paper, that is, called for a rise in temperatures through Saturday. Today would be a perfect day to relax and take it . . . 

"Wrrowrr!"

Plop.

. . . easy. With a sigh of resignation, Gary rolled out of bed and padded his way to the door. He scratched at the back of his neck with his left hand as he opened the portal. The cat was currently involved in a similar activity.

"That's twice, cat," Gary grumbled, secretly amused at the feline's attempt to make fun of him. "Keep it up and I'm putting in for a Great Dane. C'mon in and I'll fix your breakfast."

The cat obediently ambled toward the kitchenette as Gary retrieved the Paper. As was his habit, he skimmed the headlines as he prepared the cat's breakfast, then his own. There didn't seem to be much. A couple of injuries in a biking accident, someone was going to trip on the escalator in North Bridge Mall, and two kids would be hurt crawling around a construction site. For once, they seemed to be spread out over the day and he wouldn't have to half kill himself to get from one to the other. 

After a quick breakfast, Gary was able to stop the two bike couriers from colliding by calling up one of the services and having the rider make a detour to McGinty's for a package. He sent a hastily wrapped religious plaque to his parents' new address. He would explain it to them later. The woman who had run to the mall on her lunch hour was a little trickier. He got there just as the heel of her shoe snapped and she fell backwards . . . into Gary's strong arms. After keeping her steady all the way to the top of the escalator, he led her to a shoe repair shop and bid her a good day. He then returned to McGinty's where he had time to finish some paperwork as he scarfed down his own lunch. All the while, he kept the Paper close, skimming the headlines from time to time and praying that nothing would change for the worse.

As Gary laid the last of his invoices to the side, he paused to wonder about the elevator accident of the previous day. How could all of those elevators end up with faulty brakes at almost the same time? And the way the cables of that first one just . . . snapped! Ten people would've been killed or seriously injured if he hadn't gotten there in time. And why that floor? True, the weight of all those extra people could've been a factor, but Gary had his doubts. 

That had only been the second time Gary had ever been in the Randolph Building since coming to live in Chicago. To his dying day he would never be able to forget that first fateful race up those stairs. Of pushing his way through the plastic sheeting to see the rifle lying on the worktable. His morbid fascination with the sinister looking object. Of hearing that silk-smooth voice saying: "Like a moth to the flame." Feeling his heart drop into his stomach at the realization that the man he had known as 'Dobbs' was, in truth, the renegade agent named J.T. Marley. The feel of the rifle in his hands as he grabbed it to defend himself, only to see Marley's pistol just inches from his face and being told the rifle was unloaded. The icy chill of steel on his wrists as he struggled against the metal restraints. The feeling of helplessness as Marley taunted him by telling of his plans and how he had manipulated Gary from the first moment they had met. That moment of sick horror as he watched the renegade line up his target, knowing that he could do nothing to stop the slaying of another president. 

Almost as bad had been when the police, in the person of Crumb and a detective who's name he couldn't recall, appeared on the scene. Crumb ordered him to drop the gun. An order the assassin refused. Gary had silently been pleading for the killer to listen. For him to drop the rifle and live.

Marley maintained his stance, his finger tightening on the trigger. Gary could still hear that loud report, see Marley's body jerk with the impact. Could still feel the nausea rising in his throat as Marley dropped dead at his feet.

When the Secret Service had ordered Gary to keep silent about the events of those three fateful days, he'd been more than happy to comply. He hadn't needed their orders, or their threats. If they'd told him they had a way to make him forget everything entirely, he would've insisted that they use it. Not talking about it was easy.

Forgetting was impossible.

With a shuddering sigh, Gary pulled his mind back to the present with an effort. That was ancient history. No way could Marley menace anyone again. No way.

**************

Two twelve-year-old boys were indulging in the age-old pastime of daring each other to perform reckless acts. Currently, they were trying to outdo each other for stupidity on the sixth floor of the skeletal structure of a future shopping mall. Gary forced his way through the locked gate, then scrambled to ascend to where the boys had laid narrow planks down to bridge the gap between two girders. Someone had locked the elevator on the fifth floor. The first child had already taken three paces forward by the time Gary reached them. Cautiously, he eased out onto the girder.

"B-Billy Metzger?" he gasped. "Jesse Swenson?"

"Yo," the boy on the plank replied as he balanced on one foot. "Whatcha want?"

"You guys need to get down from here," Gary told them. "You're gonna get yourselves killed pullin' stunts like this!"

"Nah," the other boy laughed. "We do this all the time. It's fun!" He started to step out onto his own plank.

Gary grabbed the boy's jacket and yanked him back . . . just as a bucket toppled from a higher level and snapped the plank in half! Petrified, the boy watched as the fragments tumbled end over end to the ground below. The bucket hit first, scattering rivets and chain links everywhere. The wooden planks hit a second later, bouncing six feet before clattering to a halt.

Horrified, Gary straightened up with a shudder. "Wh-which one are you?" he asked the wide-eyed boy at his side.

"J-Jesse," the freckle-faced boy stammered. "Oh, *man!* That coulda . . . I-I don't feel so good all of a sudden."

"Same here," Gary murmured. He tried not to look down at the ground so very far below. Gary had never made a secret of the fact that he had no head for heights. "Wh-why don't you have a seat right over here by this . . . this elevator while I get your friend. That's it. J-just . . . yeah, right there. Y-you stay . . . stay put a-and I'll go right out there a-and . . . ho-boy!"

Billy Metzger now had both feet planted firmly in the middle of the plank. Stunned by the near miss, he looked about ready to pass out. Gary tied a rope around one of the uprights, then around his waist. He then cautiously edged out onto the precarious support, playing the rope out behind him with his left hand, all the while murmuring assurances to the frightened boy.

"I-it's okay, Billy," he stammered. "W-we're just gonna . . . gonna get you down from here. Safely. Y-you understand me, Billy?" Gary slid forward one hesitant step at a time. Billy had yet to make a sound, other than faint grunting noises. "Billy. Billy, listen to me. I'm gonna need you to help me, here. You're gonna have to slide your feet this way, toward me. Billy, look at me. *Look at me!"* he hissed, trying not to startle the boy.

Billy slowly raised green, fear glazed, eyes to meet Gary's. The child's face was completely drained of color and Gary began to worry that he might faint. Edging a little farther out onto the board, he reached a hand out to the terrified boy.

"Slide your feet toward me, Billy," he murmured. "Just a few steps. C'mon, you can do it. You gotta help me out here, kid. You're a little big for me to carry. Just slide this way a little and let me take your hand. C'mon, Billy. You can do this! Just . . . just stretch out your hand. That's it. A little . . . Whoa!"

Billy had been stretching his hand toward Gary, inching his way toward salvation. His youthful bravado of just moments before was gone, to be replaced by open terror. As his outstretched fingers brushed Gary's hand, his foot slipped! With a shrill cry, the boy toppled from his narrow perch!

Without hesitation, Gary lunged forward, grasping the boy's wrist as his own feet lost purchase on the slippery steel girder! His other hand clenched the rope he had wound about his wrist, arresting their fall a few feet below the horizontal beam! A shaft of fire shot through his shoulders as they jerked to a halt, swinging back and forth like an erratic pendulum, the rough nylon cord biting cruelly into his hand. Eventually, the wild swaying slowed to something a little less nauseating and Gary dared to open his eyes. He looked up to see Jesse staring down at them, eyes wide with shock. 

Gary quickly realized that there was no way this slender child could pull the two of them to safety. He urged Jesse to go for help, cajoling the frightened boy into motion. Finally, Jesse nodded his understanding and went racing off to find a phone, a policeman, anything!

After just a few seconds, Gary was definitely feeling . . . stretched. His arms felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets! The left one especially. He tried to get Billy to climb up, using him as a ladder to reach the girder, but the boy was too frightened to respond. He dangled at the end of Gary's arm, his eyes fixated on the ground almost six floors below.

"B-Billy," Gary grunted. "You gotta look up! *Billy!"* The boy snapped his head up, finally meeting Gary's distressed grimace. "G-good boy! Now, I want you to bring your other hand up and grab onto me. Can you do that?"

Hesitantly, Billy brought his free hand up until he could almost touch Gary's sleeve. His fingers had barely brushed the smooth leather when another bucket came hurtling down, hitting Gary's back a glancing blow! Tightening his grip on the boy, Gary bit back a cry of pain. The ungainly projectile had struck him just beneath the angle of his right shoulder blade. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead as he fought to retain his hold on the now thrashing, screaming child.

"Hold still!" he shouted. All the jolting around was putting a tremendous amount of strain on his already abused shoulders. 

It took another falling object, a hammer this time, to silence the panicked boy. 'Where's all this stuff coming from?' Gary wondered to himself. Looking around, he tried to find a quicker way out of their predicament. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on. Brief flashes of another time, another face, kept intruding on his memory as he tried to think. Finally daring to look down, he saw a crosspiece about ten feet below them and three feet to his left. It had a segment of completed under flooring that looked strong enough to hold them both. The next nearest one was almost twenty feet straight down. He tried to recall if the rope might be long enough to reach. It hadn't seemed very long when he'd tied it around his waist as a makeshift lifeline. Gary looked at the loop of rope between his arm and where it was attached to his waist. Not more than six feet. What if he untied it? That would give him . . . what? Another three, almost four feet? And leave him dangling with no margin of safety if he failed. 

"B-Billy," he panted, "I want you to reach up and untie the rope. I'm gonna pull you up as far as I . . . I can. A-all you gotta do i-is just tug on the end. It'll come loose easy. C-can you do that?"

"I-I think so," Billy stammered, the first words he had spoken since that first bucket had fallen. A promising sign. "L-lemme try." He stretched up, his fingers straining to grasp the end of the rope. 

Groaning with the effort, Gary pulled the boy up a few inches, until Billy could close his hand around the cord. With a quick yank, the knot was loosened and the end of the rope fell free. All that was holding them up now was the loop wound around Gary's left wrist. Letting the slender cord slip through his hand an inch at a time, he tried to ignore the burning pain as it cut into his palm. He strove to shut out the way each jolt sent streamers of pain through his back and shoulders. 

"N-now, Billy," he gasped when he'd let out as much rope as he dared, "I-I'm gonna try to swing us . . . swing us over to that section of . . . of floor. It's gonna be close, b-but I think we can make it. I'll have to . . . to swing you over first. Roll toward the middle. You got that? Stay in the middle."

"Stay in the middle," Billy repeated numbly. "Got it."

Gary hoped the boy meant what he said, because there was no more time. Gary knew he would only have the strength for one try. Using his legs to set up a controlled swinging motion, he gradually increased the arc until Billy could almost touch the flooring with his feet. By this time, pain had narrowed Gary's vision down to that one spot where he hoped to land with the boy. At the last moment, as they were coming to the apex of the arc, Gary released the rope . . . and prayed. He heard Billy hit the boards and roll, coming to a grunting halt. Numb, Gary was unable to control his own tumble so easily. He continued to roll toward the edge of the platform!

Something snagged his jacket, stopping him less than a foot from the edge. Panting, Gary lay there, trying to slow his racing heartbeat. His whole body ached, especially his shoulders. It felt as if every muscle and sinew had been stretched to the limit and released with a resounding *snap!* His left hand burned where the rope had cut into the flesh of his palm. His leather jacket and the wide leather bracer that his watch was affixed to had protected his arm and wrist, although he knew he would have a wicked looking bruise the next day. There also seemed to be a tender spot where the bucket had impacted. Still, Gary felt he should count his blessings. He was lucky to be alive!

"Are you okay, Hobson?" a concerned, and very familiar, voice asked.

Gary dared to open one eye and look up at the man who had stopped his wild tumble. "P-Parker?" he stammered. "Wh-what . . .?"

"This kid came barreling into us just down the block," Frank explained. "He said his friend and some guy were about to be killed. He led us back this way and we saw the two of you auditioning for the next 'Batman' movie." Which was only partly true. Parker and Donovan had been following Gary most of the day. They had lost sight of him three blocks away, only finding him when they heard young Jesse screaming for help. "Now, answer my question. Are you okay?"

"I-I think so," Gary replied, wincing as he tried to move. "M-maybe not. I-I can't move my . . . my arms."

Alarmed, Parker looked over to where Donovan was helping the shaken boy to his feet. 

"Craig!" he snapped. "Is the kid okay?"

"Shaken up some," Donovan reported, "but no damage I can see. Hobson?"

"We may need an ambulance," was Frank's grim reply. "He can't move his arms." Turning back to the injured man, Parker asked, "Can you feel them?"

"Oh, yeah!" Gary panted. "That's . . . that's why . . . why I can't move. H-hurts too much. Man! I'm gonna be *bathing* in sports cream tonight!"

**********

The two agents helped Gary to his feet, and then helped him and Billy to the elevator. Recovering quickly, the boy was chattering excitedly about their 'awesome' brush with death. Gary just looked at the enthusiastic young adventurer and ruefully shook his head. A movement he regretted as it sent a shaft of pain through his stiffening shoulders. 

"H-how'd you kids get in?" he asked. "The gate was . . . was locked . . . when I got here."

"Two guys let us in," Billy shrugged. "Said not to worry about security, and to have fun. They even showed us where to find the boards. Jesse and I, well, we've snuck in and done this before, lotsa times. This is the first time we've ever been invited in, though."

The ambulance and a patrol car were just pulling up as the elevator reached ground level. At Gary's insistence, the EMTs checked Billy Metzger over first while he spoke with the police. He managed to come up with a plausible story as to why he just 'happened' to see the two boys playing among the girders. At least Frank couldn't find *too* many holes in it.

The medics quickly assessed Billy and pronounced him fit. Gary, on the other hand, was soon found to have at least one broken rib on the right side. The EMTs strongly recommended that he let them take him in for treatment. 

"Great," Gary sighed. "Who's on tonight?"

"Dr. Carter," the dark haired young man chuckled. "He's been wondering what you've been up to since last month. Pneumonia, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Gary sighed. "Wonderful. I was supposed to meet Mom tonight, to help her plan a 'house warming' party for next weekend."

"Did they finally sell their old house?" the female tech asked as she checked Gary's pulse. "I thought it was still on the market?"

Gary cautiously shook his head. "They closed the day after Christmas," he told her. "Oh, you guys are invited." He rattled off the address in the suburbs. "You, too, John," he added to the cop. "A week from this coming Saturday. You guys free?"

"I'll check my calendar," Barb chuckled. "Climb up on the gurney, now, and let's go."

"Yes, ma'am," Gary sighed. Biting his lower lip against the pain, he obediently stretched out on the litter. A moment later, the ambulance was on its way.

Craig turned to the officer taking notes, glancing at his nametag.

"You're a friend of Gary's, Officer . . . Tate?" he asked. "Have you known him long?"

"A few months," the cop murmured. "He wasn't in very good shape then, either. I don't know how he does it. The guy almost died the last few times I've seen him. Yet he never hesitates. If there's some way he can help someone, he's gonna do it. You know, those two men the kid described, did they sound familiar to either of you?"

"No," Frank replied with a shake of his head. "What worries me is what he had to say about those falling buckets and the hammer. It sounded like someone was dropping things on them. Deliberately."

*******

Dr. Carter took one look at the name on the chart and shook his head with a sigh. He'd just been talking about Gary with Dr. Kovac the other day. They hadn't seen their trouble prone patient in almost three weeks. Not since he had been released after that bout of pneumonia. What had he gotten himself into this time? And who won the pool?

Stepping into the treatment room, he saw Chuny cleaning a deep abrasion on Gary Hobson's left palm. Two men, one tall and black, the other about average height and white, stood to one side, trying to keep Gary distracted from the painful procedure. It wasn't working too well. 

"Gary, Gary, Gary," Carter sighed. "What are we gonna do with you? Let's see . . . pain in the upper back and shoulders from . . . hanging?"

"I-it was a little more involved than that," Gary murmured. "Th-there was this kid a-and he was about to fall a-and . . . well . . ."

"You couldn't let that happen, of course," the young physician remarked with a disarming grin. "Well, I can't fault your motives. Let me see that hand." The nurse stepped aside to let him examine the wound. "Um, looks bad. That's gonna hurt for awhile, and it's gonna leave a scar. Let's get your watch off and see how far this bruise goes." He unfastened the broad leather band and lay the timepiece on the counter. "Is that the same watch we gave you?"

"Yeah," Gary replied with a grimace. "I only take it off when I bathe. Man! I didn't think it was *that* tight!" He was looking at a broad, painfully tender spiral that wound around his wrist and halfway to his elbow. It was already darkening to a deep purple. 

"Whew! That *had* to hurt!" Frank whistled. Behind him, Donovan had picked up Gary's watch while everyone's attention was fixed on the injured man. 

"Well, let's get this cleaned up and get you to radiology," Dr. Carter sighed. "Polly will be glad to see you. She's been calling down every ten minutes for the last hour, wanting to know if you had been admitted yet. Is there something going on between you two?"

"Sorta," Gary mumbled. He looked up to see Carter giving him an amused look. "Get your mind outta the gutter, Doc! We're *friends!* She just . . . God! I'm never gonna be able to explain this."

"I don't think I'd even try," Carter chuckled. "Chuny, you don't have to get *too* aggressive on this. It looks pretty clean. Just disinfect and wrap it up. Then I want x-rays of both shoulders, upper right ribs, left forearm, and lower back. Then let's get an MRI of his upper torso and lower back. I'd also like an ultrasound of his left rotator cuff. Lets rule out any ligament tears." He looked up to meet Gary's look of resignation. "You'll have plenty of time to reassure Ms. Gannon, Gary. You're gonna be up there for a few hours." He looked at the two men standing by the counter. "You two can have seats in the waiting room until he's through. Or you might want to leave and come back."

"I think that's what we'll do," Frank nodded. He clasped Gary's right shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "We'll be back before you're through."

"Th-that's okay," Gary grimaced. "I can get a cab on my own. You guys don't have to hang around. Um, in case I didn't say it, thanks for saving my hide. I've kinda developed an attachment to it."

"We owed you," Craig grinned. "Hang in there, Hobson. We'll be back in a coupla hours."

As they left the treatment room, Craig slipped the watch back among Gary's things. It wasn't until they had stepped out into the main corridor that he turned to Frank and gave him a knowing wink.

"It's in," was all he said.

*******

"Well," Dr. Carter sighed, looking closely at the x-rays, "you've got a couple of cracks on the right, but no separation, and no pneumo. The MRI and ultrasound show no ligament or muscle tears, either. You got lucky, this time. We won't have to admit you. How's the back?"

"Sore," Gary grudgingly admitted. "I've been keeping ice on it, and using the sports cream. Honestly, Doc, I've been as careful of it as I can. I'm keeping up with the therapy and exercising regularly. My lungs and heart haven't given me any problems and the only headaches I get lately are from stress."

"No more nightmares?" the young physician murmured as he checked over Gary's chart. He looked up when his patient didn't answer right away. Gary was staring down at his hands, off to the side, anywhere but meeting his doctor's concerned gaze. "Are you still seeing Dr. Griner?"

"Once a month," Gary admitted. "They're not so bad, most of the time. Just . . . sometimes things happen that . . . that kick 'em into high gear for a while. I usually manage to get a handle on 'em."

"Need anything to help you sleep?"

"No," Gary replied hurriedly. "And no pain meds, please. I've still got plenty from the last time."

Carter looked at Gary's medical record with a puzzled frown. "That's been a while," he murmured. "And I don't see that we gave you all that much. If you're in pain, Gary, don't be afraid to get a little relief."

"Trust me, Doc," Gary shuddered. "There are worse pains to endure."

************

Gary emerged from the treatment room to find Parker and Donovan waiting for him. They were chatting with a pretty brunette nurse who was trying not to appear bored with the attention. 

"Hi, Abby," Gary greeted her as he limped in their direction. "These guys giving you a hard time?"

"Nah," the nurse shrugged. "They've just been telling me of your latest adventures." She looked him up and down appraisingly. "So I take it we can let someone else have your room tonight? If we need to, that is."

"Ya never know," Gary chuckled. "The night is young. I thought you guys would be gone by now," he said to the two agents.

"Um, yeah," Frank replied as he watched the nurse run off in answer to an urgent summons. "We, ahm, we've got this rental and thought you could use a lift instead of having to wait for a cab."

"Thanks," Gary nodded carefully. "I'd appreciate that. Dr. Carter wants me off my feet for the rest of the night," he sighed. On the way out he had snuck a glance at the Paper. So far, nothing new had been added. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was well past suppertime. "Can I treat you guys to dinner? There's a great pizza place right on the river"

*********

Gary eased onto the bench seat with a sigh, leaning his forearms on the table. If he had a single muscle that didn't hurt, he was sure that it would before the night was over. Every joint creaked like a rusty hinge! He was definitely going to have to take something tonight or he'd never get any sleep. 

Parker and Donovan slid onto the bench on the other side of the booth and picked up their menus. They waited until the waiter had taken their order before settling into 'small talk.'

"So!" Donovan smiled. "How long have you been doing this?"

"This?" Gary asked innocently. "Wh-what 'this?' Running a bar? I got the title to McGinty's in '97. Why?"

"We don't mean that, Hobson," Frank snorted, "and you know it. How many lives have you saved just in the last coupla days? How did you know that Craig was gonna be hit by that car? Or those kids were gonna be in that construction site? How many other lives have you saved just by being in the right place? Is this a *hobby* with you or something?"

Gary squirmed uncomfortably as he tried to think of a reasonable answer. "I-I just . . . It's hard to explain," he sighed helplessly. "Th-these things just seem to . . . to happen to me. I don't know if there *is* a rational answer."

"But how do you know where to be?" Donovan asked. "This is more than just coincidence!"

"C-can we talk about something else?" Gary pleaded. "Wh-what are your plans tomorrow? Have you been to the aquarium, yet? O-or the planetarium? Oh! Um, since you guys a-are security, um, whatever, m-maybe you'd like the Police Museum. We've got all kinds of theaters, galleries, and museums. You name it, we got it."

"Gary," Frank sighed, "you can't hide from this. I've seen you risk your life twice in just a little over twenty-four hours. You're hurting so bad, right now, you can hardly sit still. And, judging from what happened at that construction site this afternoon, someone was either playing a pretty dangerous game, or they seriously wanted to kill you! Has that ever happened before?"

Gary seemed to develop a sudden fascination with his water glass as he considered how much he could safely tell these two strangers who had thrust themselves into his life. Not much, was the only answer he could come up with.

"I-I've had some trouble in the past," he grudgingly admitted. "Usually with people who think I know more than I do. O-or that I can . . . see the future. The police think it's because I've stuck my nose in where it doesn't belong. Or that I'm hiding something. Or even that I was behind it somehow."

"There is no way in hell," Donovan commented dryly, "that you could drop buckets of scrap metal on your own head while dangling sixty some-odd feet above the ground by one hand, and holding onto a screaming twelve year old with the other." This earned him a fleeting smile from Gary.

"Some of the authorities I've had to deal with are starting to come around," Gary shrugged, wincing as the motion sent a spasm of pain through his upper back. "Ssst! I've gotta remember not to do that. A-anyway, um, m-most of them just think I'm . . . I'm some kinda nut." He leaned back with a sigh followed by a slow hiss as his aching muscles touched the back of the bench. "I'm not crazy. Not yet, anyway. I can't stop . . . knowing about . . . things. I've tried. God knows, I've tried," he added with a dry chuckle. "I guess what makes it so hard is . . . I don't know how to stop caring, either."

**********

It was close to midnight when the two agents finally took Gary home. After his solemn statement, neither of them had known what to say, so they'd said nothing until their pizza had arrived a moment later. Frank was surprised to find that his appetite was unaffected by the grim mood brought on by Gary's matter-of-fact assessment of his situation. Neither was Gary's or Craig's. Between them, they'd made short work of a large pizza.

After another hour, which they devoted to sports, women, and general small talk, Gary had started showing definite signs of fatigue. He'd also had trouble concentrating on the conversation, and had even seemed to drift off to sleep at one point. With both eyes open. That was when Parker had decided that enough was enough. Their quarry was exhausted and in pain. They would get nothing further, of any consequence, tonight. 

They stayed with him as he laboriously climbed the stairs to his loft, watching with interest as he unlocked the door with his palm print. As they entered behind him, Frank took a closer look at the alarm system. It was state-of-the-art, with redundancies on top of redundancies. Only those whose prints the system was programmed to recognize would have access. He thumped the pane of rippled glass speculatively. He was willing to bet that it was not ordinary glass, either. Someone had gone to an awful lot of trouble and expense to ensure that this man had a safe place to sleep. He made a comment to that effect as he strolled into the room.

"It was a g-gift," Gary grunted as he eased onto the bed. "Some . . . friends from, um, Colorado had it installed last year. I was having a-a little problem with break-ins at the time." He eased his shoes off with his toes, then lay back with a sigh of relief. He had one bad moment when his shoulders touched the mattress, but it quickly passed.

"Where's that sports cream you were talkin' about?" Parker asked. "You need to rub some in before you hit the sack."

"Medicine cabinet," Gary murmured drowsily, waving a hand in the direction of the bathroom. "Top shelf."

Parker stepped into the bathroom and took a moment to look around at all the modifications that had made everything more accessible to someone in a wheelchair. What had it been like, he wondered. 

When he'd first been brought into the Project, Frank had become good friends with Dr. John Ballard, a geeky sorta guy who had been stuck in a wheelchair since he was a teenager. Frank knew that, while Ballard had outwardly accepted his situation, he never stopped praying for a miracle. Had it been the same with Hobson, or did he make his own miracle?

The sports cream was right where Gary had said it would be. Frank grabbed the tube and headed back to the living area. Donovan was coaxing Hobson to sit up so that he could remove the jacket and shirt from the nearly lethargic man. He was also encouraging Gary to swallow the pill he was holding out. Which he finally did. As Craig pulled the t-shirt over Gary's head, Frank's breath caught in his throat at his first sight of the barkeep's bare back. Craig had a similar reaction as he looked at Gary's chest. 

"Those are bullet wounds!" the ex-SEAL commented with a grimace of empathy. He'd been shot more than once and knew how they had to have felt.

"Hmm?" Gary murmured, following Craig's eyes. "Oh, yeah, well, I guess I forgot to duck a few times." He rubbed one hand over his face, trying to rouse himself enough to pay attention. "That pill wasn't morphine, was it?" he asked suspiciously.

"Demerol," Craig replied with a shake of his head. "About 50 mg, from what the doctor said. How many times have you been shot? I count three, no four scars here."

"Gimme a second," Gary sighed, eyes closed in concentration. "Um, twice here," he mumbled, placing a hand on his right shoulder. "Once here," indicating the left shoulder. "Once on the left side," he added, putting a hand to his lower ribs. "Creased across the back. Twice. And once across the back of the head. That one kept me groggy for a week or so. So that's . . . seven? No, eight," he finished with a sleepy nod. He rubbed at a scar on his right bicep. His brow creased into a frown as the room jiggled a little too much. "I don't think I like Demerol."

"What the hell happened to your back?" Frank asked as Hobson turned over onto his stomach. "Were you a POW somewhere?"

"Hmm? Oh. No," Gary murmured sleepily. "Took a li'l vacation last November. Ran into some trouble. That feels better," he sighed as Frank applied a liberal layer of the menthol-scented medicine. 

Parker tried to ignore the ridges of scar tissue crisscrossing Hobson's back as he rubbed the strong smelling cream into the barkeep's broad shoulders, being extra careful around the livid bruise beneath the right shoulder blade. Someone had worked him over good at some point! Recently, too. Still, most of them would fade, given time. 

By the time Parker had finished his ministrations, the medication had kicked in and the barkeep was snoring softly. They rolled him over enough to turn the covers back, then managed to get his jeans off and tuck him in. Through all this, Gary never stirred. Between the battering he had taken in saving the boys and the medication, he was out for the night. As Frank pulled the covers up to Hobson's chin, he couldn't help but recall this same man lying in a hospital bed, his mother and father giving him permission to die. With a shiver, he picked up Hobson's discarded clothing and lay them over the back of a chair before slipping his own jacket back on and turning toward the door.

"Remind me not to go on any vacations with this guy," Craig murmured. "I don't want to be the one to bury him."

"Let's go," Frank said as he pulled the door closed. "I need to get another look at his file. There's something not right here."

*********

Friday Feb 22 0035 hrs - Chicago. Illinois

"I thought so," Frank mumbled as he scanned the page. "Look here, at the autopsy report. *No abrasions on the hands!* And he has a doozy of one right now. There's also no mention of that bruise on his forearm. Or the one on his back. It mentions the *scars* on his back, on his wrists, old fractures, an appendix scar, everything. The injuries he's gotten since I back-stepped didn't even *happen* in the other timeline!"

"That makes sense, if you think about it," Craig mused as he took a seat on Frank's bed. "I wasn't here before, so he wouldn't have needed to rescue me from that car, and he wouldn't have hurt his back. So how did that cause those two kids to be playing at that construction site?"

"I don't know," Parker sighed, tossing the file onto the desk. "I just don't think it was all that 'accidental,' if you get my meaning. Two guys let these kids into a closed construction site and tell them to 'have fun.' Even show them a place to find the most trouble. Then you've got buckets of metal plummeting from the upper floors, straight onto Hobson and those kids. It almost sounds like someone is testing him, seeing how far they can push him before he breaks." He looked down at the open packet. "Here's another scary thought."

"Like we shouldn't be scared enough?" Donovan snorted. "What next?"

"Just this," Frank replied grimly. "I grabbed Hobson less than a foot from the edge. What if I hadn't been there? He never could've gotten to DC if that'd happened in the first timeline. Even if he hadn't 've died, he would've been critically injured. *It didn't happen!* Somebody *chose* to *make* it happen! Somebody who knows about Hobson, or has at least heard of someone like him. I think they're making sure of their target before they either pick him up . . . or take him out."

Craig shuddered as the implications hit him. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was a few minutes after midnight. He picked up the phone and started dialing. Suddenly, he felt an urgent need to talk to Ramsey.

********** 

Gary moaned in his sleep, rolling over onto his back and raising his hands to shield his face. He wanted to wake up, but the medication was keeping him mired in the dream realm. His lips moved as he made murmuring, pleading noises. He seemed to be begging someone to stop . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~

He was once more in that half finished office, plastic sheeting covered work surfaces, divided one 'room' from another, providing perfect hiding places for . . . things. Like bodies. And guns. And killers. 

Gary strained against the steel rings encircling his wrists, binding his hands behind him and around the metal skeleton of the scaffold. Marley stood at the window, the rifle in his hands. Gary tried to persuade him, at first, then found himself yelling, almost screaming! Anything to distract the assassin from his deadly purpose! 

"You're lost, Marley!" he cried. "Lost in your own logistics!"

Crumb was there, screaming at Marley to drop the gun! Marley glanced back for just an instant before turning back to his murderous task! Speechless, Gary could only watch the drama unfold. 

Crumb cried out once more. 

Marley raised the rifle to his shoulder, taking aim. His finger tightened on the trigger.

A shot rang out!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gary sat straight up in bed, his heart racing and chest heaving as he fought to get himself under control. The nightmare/memory had completely overcome the sedative effects of the painkiller. Looking around wildly, he flopped back with a sigh of relief to find himself alone. The action sent a shock of pain through his back, his only acknowledgement a soft grunt of protest. His heart was still thumping away like a bass drummer on amphetamines. 

Finally, he covered his mouth with both hands and sighed. Turning his head just enough to look at the clock/radio, Gary saw that it was only two o'clock. Two o'clock. Why did that seem so important? Two o'clock. The Randolph Building. Marley. 

Marley. 

Why was he dreaming about the renegade Secret Service agent now? Was it because of his recent visit to the Randolph Building? Why not the night before, when the memories had been so fresh in his mind? There was still a lot about that incident which puzzled him. Gary still couldn't believe that every elevator in the building could malfunction at almost the same time! And why the 13th floor? Most buildings refused to have a 13th floor, going straight from 12th to 14th. Why was this one different?

Marley.

He was dead. Had died at Gary's feet before his nefarious task could be completed. Crumb had shot the turncoat as he was taking aim on the President of the United States. He had been buried in an unmarked grave more than five years ago. It was done. Over. 

So why couldn't he get that bastard out of his head?

*********

Gary was still wide-awake by the time the Paper arrived. As he led the way back to the kitchenette, the cat kept rubbing its body against his leg and looking up at him, making little questioning noises.

"I'm fine, cat," he sighed. "Just didn't sleep so good last night. You want a can of the chicken this morning?"

The cat sat on its haunches and licked its lips. Gary was almost certain it was smiling.

"Chicken it is, then," Gary replied with a tired grin. "C'mon. I've already had my breakfast."

As the cat dug into it's breakfast, Gary sat down with the Paper and a cup of coffee. It promised to be a slow day. There were only two items that were of any interest to him. The first one was the only one he had that morning. Taking one more gulp of his coffee, he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. A homeless man was going to be found in the alley behind Portillo's on W. Ontario in less than an hour. He would die that afternoon from injuries sustained in a vicious beating by two unknown assailants. As he neared the door, Gary grabbed his hockey stick. And his cell phone. Was Peter up at this hour, he wondered?

*********

*Dee-dee-dee-dee-dee*

"He's on the move already?" Frank groaned, rolling out of bed. He tossed a pillow and struck the figure occupying the other bed. "Rise 'n' shine, Craig!" he sighed. "We got work to do. Our boy's an early riser."

Craig Donovan raised his head just enough to look at the clock, then buried his head under the pillows. "Tell him to go back to bed," was the muffled response. "I'm sleeping in."

Frank tossed another pillow as he pulled on his pants. "C'mon, Craig," he insisted. "After yesterday, I don't wanna take any chances. He wasn't supposed to be killed until tomorrow, but he almost bought it along with that kid." He picked up what looked like a PDA on the nightstand. It showed a color map of the immediate area along with street names. A tiny dot was moving slowly along one of the streets. "He's headed north on Wells. I don't see how he can move after the beating he took. He must have a higher pain tolerance than I do!"

They reached street level as Gary came trotting by, still moving north. He was now on LaSalle. He was holding a cell phone to his ear with one hand and carrying a hockey stick with the other. 

"A *hockey stick?"* Frank exclaimed. "What now? He's a little old to be tryin' out for the team, isn't he?" 

"It's never that simple with this guy," Craig sighed as they hurried after their quarry. "C'mon. He's already past McDonald's so he's not after breakfast, either."

They followed Hobson as he cut through the parking lot around the 'Rock 'n' Roll McDonald's' and crossed W. Ontario to disappear into the alley between the Amoco and a restaurant called Portillo's. They ran across the street just in time to hear Gary yelling for someone to 'Back off!'

The two agents entered the narrow alleyway to see Gary facing off against two bruisers who were standing over what looked like a bundle of old rags.

"Leave him alone," Gary snapped. "He's just a harmless old man." He had the hockey stick cocked back over one shoulder, ready to wade into the two gorillas.

They were apparently unimpressed. The overgrown thug on the left took a step forward, one hand reaching inside his windbreaker. "You just bit off more trouble . . ." he growled.

"Than one person can handle," Frank finished for him. "That's why he brought backup." He moved up to Gary's right, a 9mm automatic clenched in his right hand. "You really don't need whatever you have in that pocket, pal, so let's keep both hands where we can see 'em. You, too, friend. Good boys," he added as both men raised their hands. "Craig? You got your cell phone?"

"The police are on their way," Donovan replied from Gary's left, staying well clear of the hockey stick. "Ambulance, too."

Gary had managed to contain his surprise at seeing his two new acquaintances, and now took a cautious step closer to the old man. The two bruisers stepped back when Frank waved them away with his pistol. 

"Why don't you two just turn around and put both hands on the wall, there," he suggested. "Now."

The two did as they were told. The moment they did, Gary wasted no time in rushing to the side of the motionless form on the pavement. Laying his hockey stick to one side, he began a careful search for broken bones. From the look on his face, he was finding a few.

"The guy is seventy years old," he grumbled. "He's not even a threat to himself. What could he possibly have that two healthy guys like you couldn't go out and earn like the rest of us?" He pressed a folded handkerchief against a deep cut on the old man's forehead. Casting a glance at the expensive watch on one man's wrist, he asked, "Or is this *how* you make a living?"

"That's for us to know, Hobson," the one who had spoken earlier chuckled.

Three sets of eyes locked on him instantly.

"Do I know you?" Gary asked, his eyes narrowing slightly in concentration. "I don't recall having met you before."

No response.

"The man asked you a question," Craig murmured in a menacing tone. "That usually requires an answer."

All they got was stony silence. While Craig covered him, Frank stepped up and pressed the muzzle of his gun against the speaker's neck. 

"I'm in a lousy mood, pal," he commented in a conversational tone. "I missed out on my beauty sleep. Now, how do you know Mr. Hobson, here? And please remember that I am in a really lousy mood."

"Put the gun down, mister!"

Gary looked up to see a police officer removing the gun from Craig Donovan's hand. Another officer had his pistol trained on Frank Parker.

"It's okay, guys," Gary told them. "They were helping me help him," he added, nodding at the man on the pavement before him. He looked past the two officers to the EMTs coming up behind them. "The two holding up the wall were trying to cave in his ribs when I got here. He needs a ride to the ER."

Things got a little crazy after that. As Frank stepped back, intending to lay his gun on the ground and identify himself, if necessary, the man he had been threatening pushed out from the wall, knocking him over Gary and the old man. The two officers brought their guns to bear, only to find themselves aiming at Gary. The one who had yet to speak had grabbed Gary by the hair and yanked him up to use as a shield! He now had one muscular arm clamped around Gary's throat and a pistol pressed tightly behind his right ear. The other man had disappeared in the confusion.

"We're going to leave, now," the man holding Gary said in a surprisingly calm, and cultured, voice. "Mr. Hobson is going to be our guest for just a few minutes."

He pulled Gary backwards one step at a time, backing around the corner and into the parking lot behind the Amoco station. Gary looked back at the others, meeting Frank's eyes with a frightened, pleading gaze. While the bruiser's attention was fixed on the cops, Frank slowly stretched his hand out for the gun he had dropped earlier.

"I wouldn't do that, Mr. Parker," the silken voice purred so low that only Frank and Gary could hear him. "You don't want anything to happen to your new friend." The arm had tightened and Gary's eyes rolled up as he struggled to breathe! His hands came up to tug ineffectually at the constriction.

Frank slowly brought both hands up even with his shoulders. Down on one knee, as he was, there was little else he could do. He watched helplessly as Hobson was dragged over to a nondescript black four-door sedan. The passenger door was thrust open from the inside and the man with the smooth voice backed up until he was almost inside. With a lightening quick move that belied his bulk, the man raised his pistol and brought it down with stunning force across the back of Gary's head at the same moment as he thrust his hostage away.

Gary dropped in a boneless heap as the black car peeled rubber and sped off, his abductor safely inside. He was conscious only of the blinding pain in his head, and finally being able to draw air into his oxygen starved lungs! He rolled onto his back, eyes squeezed shut and chest heaving, as he strove to get air past his bruised trachea. He was dimly aware that someone had knelt beside him and was calling his name.

"M'kay," he croaked. He blinked his eyes open, wincing as the early morning sunlight sent a shaft of renewed agony through his battered head. "A-almost, anyway," he added with a grimace. "Man, what is this? 'Beat up on Hobson Week?' And who were those guys?" He tried to raise his head, only to give it up when another stab of pain raced through the back of his head. 

"Just lie still, Hobson," Frank's voice suggested. "You probably have a concussion. The EMTs will be here as soon as they're through with the old guy." Two fingers gently pushed his chin to the left, eliciting a groan as the motion stretched bruised skin and muscles. "That's gonna need stitches. Looks like another scar to add to your collection. Did those guys look familiar at all?"

"N-no," Gary stammered. "You? Th-that guy knew y-your name, too."

"Yeah," Frank murmured, his voice thoughtful. "He did. And that makes me very nervous."

**********

"Your CT was negative," Dr. Kovac murmured as he tied off the first stitch. "As were your x-rays. You have a very hard head, Mr. Hobson."

"I think we, unh! know each other well enough that you can call me Gary," the patient grunted. "And that hard head has been my greatest asset the last few years. How's the old man? Is he gonna be okay?"

The swarthy Croatian took the time to tighten another suture before answering. "He'll be fine in a few days. From the look of him, the rest will do him good."

"He'll *probably* eat better here, too," Gary chuckled. "Ow! Not so rough, Doc! I think the Novocain's wearin' off."

"Are you saying that our hospital food is not as good as the local, how do you say, soup kitchen?" Dr. Kovac asked in mock indignation.

"I lived here for several months, remember?" Gary pointed out. "And I've been a 'guest' several times since then. It's not exactly home cooking."

The doctor said nothing as he continued to suture the gash just above Gary's hairline behind his right ear. Although Gary had a sneaking suspicion that the swarthy Croatian was smiling behind his back.

********

"No concussion," Gary reported as he rejoined the two he now suspected to be more than 'security consultants.' "Just a God awful headache." He gingerly probed the bandage covering the sutures. "And a little needlework. I'm beginning to think I should buy stock in the company." 

"So," Parker murmured, tilting Gary's head up to get a closer look at the livid bruise starting to darken around the other man's throat, "any ideas on who those two were?"

"I was just about to ask you the same thing," Gary remarked. "Mine wasn't the only name he was tossin' around." He freed his chin from Parker's grasp to give the shorter man a direct look. "Is there something we need to talk about?"

Parker and Donovan exchanged concerned, hesitant gazes. How much should they tell him? How much would he believe? 

"Give us a moment," Frank sighed, as he drew Craig off to one side. The two men held a hushed conference, with an occasional glance at their companion. Finally, they turned back to face the irritated barkeep. "Come back to our room with us," Parker told him. "We'll tell you what we can, which isn't much."

"Better than nothing, I suppose," Gary grumbled. "Let's go."

********

Frank handed Gary the thick file that detailed his life . . . and death. With a puzzled glance at the two NSA agents, or so they had claimed to be, Gary opened the manila folder and began to read. He skimmed through most of it, pausing only to read someone's psychiatric analysis of his odd behavior. The words 'delusional,' 'schizophrenic,' and 'paranoid' cropped up a lot. Nothing he hadn't already heard before. Turning to the most recent events, he found the photos taken at the train station, although he had no way of knowing that. They were the ones showing Parker and Donovan holding a bloody figure dressed in what was left of one of Gary's blue flannel shirts.

"Th-that's me?" he stammered, looking up at the two agents. "But . . . but that never happened! I haven't been to Washington in years, and I know I was never . . . I mean . . . th-this *never happened!"*

"Not yet," Frank told him, his voice surprisingly gentle. "It happens tomorrow, but I can't tell you how. Not yet."

*"Why* would I go to Washington?" Gary asked, unable to take his eyes from the gruesome pictures. "I rarely leave the Tri-state area these days."

"You'll know tomorrow," Donovan replied. "We've been given strict orders not to interfere until there's no other choice."

Gary's face had lost all its color as he read the autopsy report. *His* autopsy report! The medical jargon left his head spinning as he tried to understand what he was seeing. He checked the date on the report. It read 'Sunday, February 24th.' Stunned, he almost fell onto the bed.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded in a hushed whisper. *"How* did you . . .? You're from the future! Y-you have some way o-of *traveling through time!"* Gary leapt to his feet, still holding that damning file, as he paced the narrow confines of the hotel room. "Is it one way? Can you only travel to the past, or can you return to your own time? No, of course not. You change the past and the future changes, too. H-have . . .? God! I can't believe I'm even asking these *questions!* H-how far in the future are you from? A few days? A week?" 

The two agents watched as he started putting the pieces together with a lot more reasoning than they would've given him credit for a few days before. But then Frank had been there when Gary had discovered the sphere, had seen him analyze the object with uncanny accuracy for a layman. He could actually see it in Gary's eyes as the barkeep made the connection.

"That thing in the park," Hobson murmured, his eyes growing wide. "Th-that overgrown blue soccer ball! One of you was the pilot! Wh-which . . .?" He turned to look directly at Parker. "Were you hanging around, watching me?"

"What makes you think it was just one of us?" Donovan asked, stunned at how fast this man was putting the pieces together. 

"It was only big enough for one," Gary replied, not taking his eyes off Parker, who met his gaze openly. "You *did* see me. You watched me crawling around that thing. Th-that's why you mentioned it in the bar that evening. You were checking me out, seeing if . . . if I could be trusted w-with something l-like . . . this," he concluded, looking down at the file in his hands. With a shudder, he tossed the folder on the desk. "So I'm supposed to die tomorrow. What can I do to change that?"

"Don't go to D.C." Frank told him with a dismissive shrug.

"I don't even know what I'm going to D.C. for!" Gary muttered with a silent curse. "I-if I'm going there for a reason, then that reason hasn't changed. And you won't tell me what that reason is. Why? If it's something that needs to be stopped, then why can't *you* stop it? Save me the trip?" But Gary had been down that road too many times before. He knew why. Knew what it was that the two agents' superiors wanted to know. "You're supposed to find out how I'll know. My so called 'secret.' Well, you can go back to whoever you really work for and tell 'em to go to Hell! I've done my bit and, from the looks of it, I'll keep on doin' it until I can't anymore. How I do it, and why . . . that's my business." He turned and took a couple of steps toward the door.

"Gary, look . . ." Frank started, reaching a hand out to stop him.

"No, *you* look!" Gary snapped heatedly, spinning back to face the two agents. "I *tried!* Last September, I tried to warn you people what was gonna happen and you . . . *laughed* at me! Well, no one's laughing8 now. Least of all, me." He paused, biting his lip as he rubbed at his eyes. "You have no *idea* what it felt like," he continued when he could speak again. "To know what was going to happen and be completely, totally *helpless* to do anything about it. And you! Y-you could've gone back and stopped it! *Why didn't you?"*

"It's not our decision," Frank sighed as the implied accusation stirred up old resentments. "If it were, believe me, it never would've happened. There's a-a sorta . . . committee that tells us what we can change and when."

"Well thank *God* I don't work for your 'committee!'" Gary grumbled. His eyes narrowed as things began to click into place. "That's the rest of it, isn't it? They want to know how I do it so they can call the shots. Well, just double what I said before. I do what I do because it's *right!* Because innocent people, regardless o-of race, or religion, or social standing, or political clout, have just as much right to live as the President of the United States. I'm not going to stand by and let some 'committee' decide who lives or who dies! Not on *my* watch!" he added, stabbing a thumb at his chest.

Without giving them a chance to reply, Gary snatched the door open and practically ran from the room. In truth, there was nothing either man could say in the face of his accusations. He had pretty much nailed all their own complaints on the head.

"Well," Frank sighed. "All things considered, I think that went just great. Don't you?"

**********

Gary hurried back to his loft and grabbed the Paper from where he had dropped it to rush off for that first, fateful rescue. He still had plenty of time to stop that fire in the offices of the Loyola Law School. It wasn't going to happen for another three hours. 

He paced furiously as what the agents had told him replayed itself in his mind. Damn them! Damn them for not listening before and for expecting him to play their asinine games! And double damn their self-righteous 'committee,' while they were at it! How could anyone with the power they had use it to play God like that? And how could they expect him to go along, even if he could? 

His troubled thoughts ground to a halt as he felt something rub against his leg. Looking down, he saw the cat winding itself in a figure eight around his feet. He seemed to be telling the human to chill out.

"You chill, cat," Gary grumbled irritably. "You're not the one that might be dead by tomorrow night. Or the one who might end up under a microscope for the rest of his life. Jesus Christ! Why me? How'm I supposed to make these kinds o' decisions?" He plopped down on the sofa and buried his face in his hands. "This sucks," he moaned, rocking back and forth in agitation. "Talk about 'damned if you do and damned if you don't.' If I stay here, something bad is gonna happen in Washington that other people know about, but no one wants to stop but me. And I don't know what it is, yet, so I can't warn anyone. If I go, there's no guarantee I'll succeed and, apparently, I'll die in the attempt. But how can I live with myself if I don't try, at least? If I sit back and do nothing, then I'm no better than that blasted 'committee.' And who were those other guys? What's their stake in this? Are they gonna cause whatever I'm supposed to stop? And how did they know me? A-are they gonna . . . are they gonna be the ones who . . . B-but why tomorrow? Why not this morning? What kinda game are *they* playing?"

The cat stood up, placing one forepaw on Gary's knee while he patted the sleeve of the human's jacket with the other in an oddly comforting gesture. Smiling hesitantly as he looked into those golden yellow eyes, Gary reached down to scratch the savvy feline behind the ears.

"Yeah, I know," he sighed. "All these questions are driving me crazy. The answers are probably worse." He lifted the cat into his lap and began stroking the orange back. An activity the tabby wholeheartedly approved of. "At least I have backup, now. And someone to listen to me rant like a lunatic," he added, rubbing the purring feline under the chin. 

Gary leaned back with a sigh, wincing as his back came into contact with the sofa. He had been so wrapped up by the morning's activities, and the stunning revelation by the two time-hopping agents, he had almost forgotten how sore his shoulders were. Fortunately, they were not as stiff as they could've been. The sports cream Parker had applied the night before had helped. As had the few hours of sleep provided by the medication. Gary recalled a few twinges as he'd raised the hockey stick over his shoulder, and again when that bozo had put the sleeper hold on him. In a few more days he should be as good as new. 

If he lived that long.

********

"Let me talk to Ramsey," Parker said into the phone. He glanced at Craig and shook his head with a sigh. "Hell, I agree with everything he said. I wanted to go back before 9/11 so bad it made me sick. At least he can say he . . . Ramsey! What did you find out about . . .?" He listened for several long seconds as the security chief gave his report. "Jesus! No wonder he looked spooked! Any information on the . . .? What about follow-up? Did Hobson . . .? Not even a *handshake?* That's *cold!* Can you blame the guy for being bitter? That had to stick in his craw big time! Yeah," he sighed. "We told him. No, not about the trains. He still doesn't know about that, yet. He *does* know that he may die tomorrow. Actually, he was angrier that the Panel let the WTC disaster happen. Scared? I don't know. I think he was too mad to be scared. We didn't have to tell him much at all. He seemed to take the file at face value, as if he's seen stuff like that before. Yeah, he put the pieces together in a heartbeat. I think Isaac would love this guy. He figured out the connection with the sphere with no prompting from us, and even knew that it was a one-seater. The guy's a little weird, Nate, but he's no dummy. He thinks on the fly. Tell Bradley that he's probably going to resist recruitment. When we told him why we didn't stop what happened on 9/11, he told us where the Panel could go and all but offered to buy them an express ticket. No, I don't think he's ever gonna make president of their fan club. His *motives!* Christ, Ramsey! *He cares!* What other kind of motive can he have? You haven't even seen the stuff he's done in just the last few days! Did I tell you that he saved Craig's life? No! There was absolutely no way that he could've set it up, you suspicious . . . From three blocks in the other direction? Give me a break!"

Frank listened to the man on the other end of the line for another few seconds, rolling his eyes as he fidgeted impatiently. Finally, Ramsey concluded the conversation by repeating the order to 'keep an eye on Hobson.'

"Talmadge and the Panel still want to know how he does it," Ramsey sighed. "If it's something that we can duplicate or . . . commandeer, they want it. Whatever it takes."

Closing his secure cell phone with a snap, Frank looked up at his friend and shook his head. There didn't seem to be any way to convince the Back Step Panel that Hobson was not exactly a 'team player.'

"Talk about your one track minds," he sighed. "Ramsey had the full scoop on Hobson and the Randolph Building, at least." He quickly filled Donovan in on the attempt on President Tyson's life a few years before. "This Marley guy was a real piece of work. He tries to convince Hobson he's crazy, almost did convince the police he was guilty of murder, started a city-wide manhunt for Hobson, and then trapped him in the Randolph Building. When the police arrived on the scene, Hobson was chained to a scaffold, ripe for the slaughter, and Marley was lining up his shot. If not for Hobson's interference, Tyson woulda died that day."

"So why wasn't any of that made public?" Donovan wondered. "You'd think the President would've called for some kind of award ceremony, at least."

"The Secret Service swept it under the rug so fast," Frank chuckled, "Martha Stewart couldn't have found a speck of dirt. Marley used to be one of their own. They didn't *want* it made public. Neither did Hobson. He refused to let anyone lodge a protest on his behalf. When the Service threatened him with Leavenworth, he just shrugged and said not to worry. Not exactly a 'glory hound,' is he?"

**************

The fire at the offices of the Loyola Law School had proven to be pretty routine, as Gary had hoped. Two first year students had been trying to prove a point about an arson case. The demonstration had gotten more than a little out of hand. Gary had been sitting in the back, next to a fire extinguisher when the flammable liquids had spilled out across the desk. A quick scramble to the front, a few long spurts of the foam, and the situation was contained. 

That left him plenty of time to think about what he had learned that morning. And what might happen the next afternoon. To say that the prospect of his own death frightened him would be a gross understatement. To say that it scared the crap out of him would be a *little* closer to the truth. Not that he hadn't faced death before, and more than once. Somehow, that never seemed to blunt the feeling of gut-wrenching terror he felt as events unfolded.

"And I think we could have a three-ring circus in the backyard," Lois was saying as Gary just nodded, his thoughts still on Parker, Donovan, and Washington, D.C.

"I'll look into it," Gary murmured absently. Then her words penetrated the fog in his brain. "A circus? Isn't that a little 'over the top' for a housewarming party?" he asked, leaning back in his chair and giving his mother a puzzled look.

"I had to see if you were listening," Lois grinned. "You never said a thing when I mentioned the go-cart races or the tandem skydivers." Her expression sobered as she reached across Gary's desk to take his hand. "Something is bothering you, sweetie. Do you want to talk about it?"

"I can't," Gary sighed. "I'd like to . . . but I can't. I, um, I may have to go out of town tomorrow, Mom. I've already given Peter a call and he's gonna cover things until I get back." *'If* I get back,' he added to himself. "I hope to be home in time for the party, but I can't promise anything right now." He saw no need to mention that he had spent the long walk back from E. Pearson St. getting his thoughts together and taking a long look at things. Places and scenes that he might never see again. Nor that he had stopped in to see Jake and get the money he would need to charter a plane. There was no need to leave his preparations until the next day, when it would be so much harder to transfer the funds. Not this time, anyway. 

"Is it something to do with . . . *you8 know?" she asked, almost afraid to mention the Paper. Gary had come so close to dying so many times in the past two years. Mostly because of that blasted, fortune telling rag!

"S-sorta," he shrugged, wincing as the motion tugged at his back and shoulder muscles. "Honestly, Mom, I can't tell you what's gonna happen, 'cause I don't know, yet. But I may be gone f-for a few days. Marissa and Emmett should be back from their honeymoon by next Friday. Do you think that you and Dad can handle the bar until then, if it comes down to it?"

"I don't think we'll have any problems, Gary," Lois replied, giving her son what was meant to be a reassuring smile. She couldn't hide the worry that shone from her eyes, however. This was her only child and something was tearing him apart. She could feel it as clearly as if he were shouting it from the rooftops. It bothered her that there was nothing she could do to help unless he let her. Which he didn't seem inclined to do. "Is it something . . . major?" she asked, knowing how badly he had beat himself up over the tragedy of the World Trade Center.

"I-I think it might be," he murmured, staring down at their clasped hands. "I just don't know yet."

"Then you be careful, Gary," Lois told him, giving his hand a squeeze before releasing it to sit back with a sorrowful sigh. "I just wish I knew what was going on so I'll know how much I should worry."

"I promise to tell you as much as I can when it's all over," he assured her. "Just . . . don't expect it to make a lot of sense."

"Please, Gary!" Lois snorted daintily. *"Nothing8 has made any sense for the last five years. Why should tomorrow be any different?"

With a relieved chuckle, Gary leaned across the desk and kissed his mom on the cheek. He then looked down at the list of things they had been compiling for the party. "Go-cart races?" he read, his brow knit in a puzzled frown. "S-sky divers, and a three ring circus? It's still a little cold for any of that, don't you think?"

***********

The crowd at McGinty's was hopping that night, which was good as it kept Gary from thinking about the next day . . . and what news the Paper might bring. The behemoth from Tuesday evening was there, and behaving himself nicely. He even left Karen a generous tip. 

Parker and Donovan were there, also, trying to convince Gary not to go on his fateful flight the next day. Gary took them to his office where they could talk privately.

"You know you can't stop this," Frank told him. "You'll die for nothing. Let *us* find a way to stop it."

"That may not be my choice," Gary told them candidly, "or yours. Just the fact that you're here could mean it won't happen. Or it may happen regardless. I've learned not to get my hopes up." He gave Frank a direct, appraising look. "Besides, weren't you the one who said you had orders not to stop it unless I couldn't? What will your 'committee' say if you ignore their orders?"

"Like *that's* never happened before," Craig chuckled. "Frank is lucky he's the only one who can fly that thing. Otherwise, he'd 've been canned ages ago."

"How do you handle it?" Gary asked the chrononaut. "How do you feel about being the only one to've seen the disasters you get sent back to prevent?"

Frank looked down at his feet as he leaned back on the sofa. It seemed that he was not going to answer, at first. Then he looked up at Gary, his gaze level and full of misery. "I think you *know* how I feel," he said. "You go through the same thing everyday, don't you? You don't travel back in time, but you see the future in some way. Some way that's incredibly accurate. I only have to do it every few weeks or so, sometimes less. You've stopped at least one death, or disaster, a day since we've been here. How do you handle it?"

"By reminding myself that each life matters," Gary shrugged. He bit his lip, trying not to react to the spasm of pain that ran through his back and shoulders. At least it wasn't as bad . . . this time. "Knowing what I know, how could I sit back and do nothing? How could your committee, with the capabilities your guys have, sit on their hands and not undo what happened last September? Whose life is in danger tomorrow that they think is more important than the thousands* that died that day? And don't say mine, 'cause I know better."

"We can't tell you any more than we already have," Frank replied with a shake of his head. "You just have to trust us on this, Gary. It's better if you stay out of it. You already know what's on our agenda."

Gary was about to reply to that when Graham called him out to help deal with a disturbance in the main barroom. When he returned, the two agents were gone. 'Just as well,' he thought. He hadn't liked the direction the conversation was going, anyway.

Much later, up in his loft, Gary tried a hot bath to help him relax. It didn't help much. As the hot water swirled over his lean body, the possible scenarios kept playing themselves over and over in his imagination. A plane crashing into the White House or the Capitol Building. A terrorist attack on a crowded mall or popular tourist attraction. A train wreck. A massive traffic . . . His mind drifted back to the train wreck scenario. For some reason, that one stood out among all the other possibilities. Why? Why was that one more plausible than, say, a plane crash?

After a while, Gary gave it up. Drying himself off and donning his sweat pants and t-shirt, he got ready for bed. Not that he expected to get much sleep.

He was right.

********

Saturday Feb 23 0600 Hrs - Chicago, Illinois 

Peter Cain had come by early that morning so that he and Gary could go over the Paper together when it arrived. When the door swung open it revealed Hobson, already wide awake, although his eyes showed a distinct lack of sleep.

"Did you even go to bed at all last night?" the Shaolin asked. "You look like hell!"

"Nice to see you, too." Gary mumbled as he poured his third cup of coffee. "Things 've just gotten a little weird the last few days."

Pulling up a stool, Peter gave the other man a bemused grin. "And how is that different from any other day? For you, that is."

"Cute," Gary chuckled. "Yeah, I guess I kinda push the limits on 'weird.' It's just that someone's trying to raise the bar with this one." He started to tell the ex-cop about the two agents when a thought occurred to him. Because of his state-of-the-art security system, courtesy of the Stargate Project, Gary was pretty sure his apartment was free of listening devices. No one could have gotten in to plant one. Still, it couldn't hurt to be sure. "This may sound a little paranoid," he said with a grimace, "but is there any way we can check this place for, um, 'bugs?'"

"No problem," Peter replied with a grin. He pulled out a device that looked like a Palm Pilot. "I borrowed this from Kermit for a case I just finished. He asked me to bring it by the precinct this morning. Let's see what we can . . . whoa! What have we here?" He removed the pot from the coffee maker and tilted the base just enough to see the tiny disc affixed to the bottom. He peeled it off and held it up for Gary's astonished inspection.

It was black, about the size of a dime and twice as thick. One side had an adhesive layer while the other seemed to have a fine metallic mesh. Wordlessly, Gary took the disc and dropped it into an empty cup. He then poured a liberal amount of the hot coffee over it. Dropping in a couple of lumps of sugar, he stirred it all with a spoon. He then picked up his own cup, clinked it against Peter's, and then the 'phantom' cup.

"Salud," he murmured before taking a sip. "Any more, you think?"

Ten minutes later, the two men were satisfied that the apartment was 'clean.' Gary was fairly sure the bug had to have been planted the one time that Parker and Donovan had brought him home from the hospital. This was confirmed, in his mind at least, when Peter found something in his watchband. It was a thin, flat disc, shiny on both sides, and smaller than a dime.

"This isn't a listening device," Peter mused. "I'm not sure, but I think it's a locator of some kind."

"We can take it by the precinct and let Blake or Kermit take a look at it," Gary suggested. "Until then," he added as an idea occurred to him, "let's leave it where we found it."

About that time the alarm sounded, followed almost immediately by the familiar sounds from the hallway.

"That is so weird!" Peter chuckled. "You could set your watch by that cat!"

"I do," Gary murmured as he reached for the door. The cat sauntered in, gave Peter an appraising glance, and headed straight for his food dish. "Make yourself at home, cat." He reached down for the Paper and froze. The banner headline practically screamed at him. Slowly, Gary grasped the Paper and straightened up, unable to take his eyes from the gruesome, full color pictures spread over most of the front page. "Oh my, God!" he murmured softly. 

"What is it?" Peter asked. Reaching around, he took the mystic periodical from Gary's numb fingers. "Jesus!" he exclaimed as he, too, saw the carnage captured by the camera's eye. *"This* is what you're going to D.C. for? *No way *are you gonna do this alone! I'm . . ."

"Gonna stay right here in Chicago," Gary told him in no uncertain terms. "Look. There are at least six major incidents throughout the day," he added as he leafed through the Paper. He paused as he caught sight of his obituary on page three.

"Christ, Gary!" the Shaolin whispered. "You . . . you can't go on this one. Not after . . . *Jesus!"*

"It gets worse," the young Guardian sighed. He was staring at the pictures on page six. "No matter what," he said, "don't let my folks see this. Promise me that."

Numb with shock, Peter took the Paper back from Gary, staring at the bloody figure being cradled by a man whose face said more than any caption ever could. The Shaolin priest looked at his younger friend with a mixed expression of horror, grief, and shock.

"How can you even consider going, knowing this?" he asked. "Knowing that you could . . . that you *will* . . ."

Gary folded the Paper back to the front page and tapped the largest picture. "How can I *not* go?"

**********


	3. Terror Revisited

Saturday Feb 23 0700 Hrs - Chicago, Illinois 

"It's definitely a homing device," Kermit told them. "And a very sophisticated one. You can track this baby by satellite, if you need to. A hand held unit can pick it up at better than twenty miles. Where did you get it? They're not exactly field issue, yet."

"Someone planted it on our boy, here," Peter said, clamping a hand on Gary's shoulder. An action that had Gary biting his lip to keep from crying out. He had yet to tell his over-protective friends about his injuries. "Seems he's starting to attract some unwanted attention."

*"Any* attention is unwanted," Gary murmured. He held his hand out for the disc. "Let's put it back where we found it," he said. "I'm pretty sure the guys who placed these have my best interest at heart. For the moment, anyway. And we know for sure that I'm gonna run into trouble on this one."

"Then let me go with you," Peter insisted. "Or, better yet, let me take this one and you stay here."

"I wish I could," Gary sighed, his expression troubled. "I honestly wish I could, but I can't. Don't ask me for an explanation, guys, 'cause I don't know if there is one. I just . . . I just know that this is one of those that I absolutely have to be personally involved in."

Peter and Lt Kermit Griffin exchanged knowing glances, although it was hard to tell with Kermit since he never took off his dark glasses.

"Is this another one of those 'hunches' you get?" the detective asked dryly. "The ones that aren't psychic?"

Gary ran a hand through his thick, dark hair with a sigh as he began to pace the narrow strip of floor.

"I honestly don't know about that anymore," he replied. "Until I got thrown into this mess, I was batting below average at the stock exchange. I was lucky to clear a margin of seven percent. Now . . . i-it's like I can see details the articles never mention. Or notice things that have no obvious connection to what's going on. A-and . . . sometimes . . . sometimes I just know that I can't take care of something through a third party. You remember that incident in the park last year? When we first met Dusty Wyatt? If we hadn't 've met him, I never would've thought of using his concert to lay a trap for Sung after he kidnapped Marissa. He and Buddy never would've made their peace, and I would've had to 've come up with some other way to trap Chaste and Rossellini. Hell, I never would've met Buddy and Clay in the first place! I'd be dead! But, it was all started by something that I could've called the police about. J-just report a bunch of kids harassing people in the park. O-or later, when I was shot. I could've told you what the article said, but I knew that would only make matters worse. The damned headline changed every time I even thought of anything but what I finally did. A-and I thought I was going *crazy* with that Greco fella running around in my head! Then, just recently, that business w-with one of my own ancestors. Th-that was incredible, but it still scared the hell out of me."

"Come again?" Kermit asked, not sure he was hearing right. "Are you telling me that you've started *channeling?"*

Gary shot the detective a startled, thoughtful look, then turned that same gaze on Peter. 

"Is that what it's called?" he asked the priest. When Peter nodded silently, Gary went back to pacing. "Then I guess that's what I'm telling you. And in 'Vegas, before those thugs tried to rearrange my anatomy, I couldn't lose to save my life. In just two nights, I turned two hundred bucks into three quarters of a million. Then, just before they caught up with me in Texas, Clay's sister was taking me on a picnic. When she told me the story of that ambush, I could see it happening! Only, it wasn't happening the way she said. Then, when I-I saw that truck and *knew* who it was . . .! L-later, when we compared notes with that Taggart guy, my . . . 'vision' ended up being right on the money!" He paused, covering his face with both hands as he strove to get himself under control. "Sorry," he finally said. "I've been a little freaked out since all this started."

"Ya think?" Peter snorted.

"A-anyway," Gary continued, ignoring the comment, "that's one of the reasons I know that *I* have to handle this one, not you. Another is . . . it's not the wreck that's gonna kill me. The article has it wrong. I am not, at this time, nor will I *ever* be, on either of those trains." He tapped the picture showing Parker cradling his battered body. "That man is here in town, right now. Hold onto your skepticism, guys, 'cause this is where Dorothy and Toto started wigging out. They have an . . . an autopsy report. Mine. Dated for *tomorrow!* Does *that* qualify as weird in your book?"

***************

Frank watched as Gary and the man they had identified as Peter Cain drove out of the police parking garage. He had found it amusing that Gary had found the listening device that Craig had been so careful to conceal. It was even more ironic that Hobson had never spoken anywhere near the device until just before it had been discovered. Now, he watched as they drove off in the direction of the small airfield where Hobson had already chartered a private plane. With a sigh, he turned to the man beside him.

"We'd better hurry if we want to beat him there," he told Craig. "Did you remember to call the base?"

"Of course," Donovan murmured. "There's a F-15 fueled and ready, just waiting for us. Are you sure, after what we showed him, that he's still going to D.C.?"

Sliding into the passenger seat, Frank flashed his friend a grim smile. "I think the only way we could stop him is to lock him up."

************

Gary sank back into the passenger seat of the small private jet with a wince and a sigh. He still felt as if he had been hit by a truck, but now it was down to an SUV rather than a semi. The more he was able to move around, the better he would feel. Which was why he had insisted on flying out so early, to give himself a chance to limber up after the long flight. 

It had been a tough decision, telling Peter why he was going. Was it one he had made in the other timeline, he wondered? Had anyone known where he was going, and why? If the photos of his grisly death had been in there, how had he found the courage to step out his front door? *Had* they been there? He would never know. For the first time since he had started reading the portentous tabloid, he had made the decision before it even arrived. How did that affect things?

The pilot finished his pre-flight check, settled into his seat, and radioed the tower that he was ready for departure. The tower radioed back that there would be a slight delay.

"You going to D.C. for business or pleasure?" he asked his grim looking passenger.

"Business, sorta," Gary murmured distractedly. He suddenly felt almost too tired to talk. Maybe he could get some more coffee when they landed. "Believe me, this is no pleasure trip."

"Didn't think so," the pilot shrugged. "You look like you just lost your best friend. Is that it? A death in the family? Just tell me to mind my own business if I get too personal."

"That's okay," Gary sighed as the tower radioed back that they were clear for take off. "Nobody's died. Not yet, anyway," he added, too low to be heard over the whine of the small jet's engines. "Not yet."

***********

It had been their intention to land before Hobson, with enough time to be waiting near one of the hangars when he arrived. Such was not to be the case. The jet, which was supposed to be ready and in position, was still in the process of being fueled when they arrived. They were then forced to wait through a safety check. 

"Sorry about this, guys," the flight mechanic sighed. "We just got the word ten minutes before you drove up. Somebody's dragging their feet on this one."

"Or throwing up stumbling blocks," Frank grumbled. He looked at his watch for the third time. It would be another thirty minutes before the slender 'bird' was ready to fly. "It may be time to do a little 'house cleaning,' Craig," he told his partner.

By the time they finally landed at an airbase near D.C. and called the airfield where Gary was scheduled to arrive, Hobson had been on the ground for more than fifty minutes. 

No one had seen him for at least forty-five.

**********

The last thing Gary remembered was heading toward the field office with nothing more strenuous in mind than pouring a cup of hot coffee. The stronger the better. It had been warmer than Chicago, and he had taken his jacket off, draping it over one arm. As he passed the corner of the hangar, he dimly recalled hearing a noise in the shadows. Then had come a blinding pain and a sickly sweet smell as a damp cloth was clamped over his mouth and nose. After that, nothing, until he woke up with a throbbing at the base of his skull, pain radiating through his arms and into his shoulders, and an all too familiar feeling in his stomach that made him glad he had missed out on the coffee. 

"Open your eyes, dear boy."

Summoning all his strength, Gary fought to obey, blinking his eyes open only to squeeze them shut again as bright lights sent shafts of pain, like knives, lancing through his battered head. Just as well. He hadn't been thrilled with what little he had seen. 'Maybe if I sleep a while longer,' he mused, 'I'll come up with a better dream.'

Something struck the side of his face with a stinging slap! Gary blinked his eyes open once more to find that the lights no longer glared directly into his overly sensitive eyes. 

"Time to wake up, Mr. Hobson," a smooth, cultured voice crooned. A voice he had last heard telling Parker and the others to back off as Gary himself was on the verge of blacking out from lack of air. A man who had been taking sadistic pleasure in trying to kick an old man to death. 

Gary tried to get his befuddled mind to focus on his surroundings. It wasn't easy. The blow to his head, plus whatever had been on that rag, still had him feeling lethargic and confused. 'And let's not forget nauseous,' he mused. 'If I can just hold on until he gets close enough, boy, will he get a surprise!'

The room gradually came into focus, as did Gary's all too familiar position. He fought down a moment of panic as he realized that his arms ached because they were stretched above his head. He was in some type of large room, dangling by his wrists, feet almost a foot off the floor, but held down by something fastened around his ankles. He raised his aching head to see himself reflected in a full length mirror, an object whose purpose eluded him. Gary was able to see the police issue handcuffs encircling his wrists, fastened to a steel crossbeam by a heavy chain. The kind used to hang 'heavy bags' in gyms. A similar arrangement confined his ankles, effectively stretching him to his full length. 

The lights that had blinded him earlier seemed to be small spotlights affixed to the back of a low bench, or table. There were at least three other men present. Gary could barely make them out on the other side of the lights, dimly illuminated by the backwash. Out of the corner of his right eye, Gary was sure he had seen what looked like an open barbeque grill, filled with glowing embers. However, what caught, and held, his attention were the items arrayed across the lighted surface of the table. 

Gary had watched his share of horror movies as a kid, and a few as an adult. One of the reasons he no longer indulged in such lurid entertainment was because of how graphic the violence had become. Gary, himself, was not a violent man by nature, and found such displays of cruelty hard to stomach. What he saw laid out before him would have given John Carpenter nightmares. Or inspired Stephen King's next six blockbusters.

"Wh-what do you want from me?" Gary rasped, unable to take his eyes from the grim tableau. His voice came out in a dry, rusty croak.

"Information, for one thing," Mr. Cultured Voice replied with a beatific smile. "And a bit of revenge as well. Not many recall that fiasco involving President Tyson's visit to your fair city a few years ago. It's just as well that the man wasn't re-elected. Saved us the trouble of setting up another attempt. *You,* however, may remember a chap by the name of . . . Marley."

At mention of that hated name, Gary's head shot up, eliciting a gasp of pain as the movement sent a jolt through his poor, abused head. Squeezing his eyes shut, he had to wait out a wave of dizziness before he could again meet those cold blue eyes. They were the palest eyes Gary had ever seen, like chips of ice.

"M-Marley?" he grunted through a haze of pain. "Marley who?"

"Oh, come, Mr. Hobson," the man almost purred. "You *must* remember the man who almost killed you five years ago. In the Randolph Building? The thirteenth floor? Any of this seem the *teeniest* bit familiar? J. T. Marley. Formerly with the Secret Service until that idiot Dobbs started connecting him to the Kennedy assassination. Ah, but you *knew* him as Dobbs, didn't you?"

"You s-seem to have . . . have all the answers already," Gary panted. Having his arms stretched in such an awkward position was putting a lot of pressure on his diaphragm, making it hard to breathe. "S-so, what d'ya want from me?"

"Information, as I said," the man shrugged in reply, pacing back and forth in front of Gary. "Mr. Marley died before he could pass on how you knew where to be in time to stop the letter bomb to Mr. Hawks, as well as the assassination of President Tyson. Or why he had chosen you as his patsy in the first place. J. T. always did play things a bit 'close to the vest,' as it were. The other, why, revenge of course. You see, J. T. Marley wasn't just my partner. He was my father."

**********

By the time they had traveled the distance from the nearest Air Force base to the tiny airfield, Hobson had been missing for more than two hours. Frank Parker was the first to spot Gary's dark leather jacket. It lay crumpled in the shadow of the hangar that Hobson would've had to pass on his way to the office. He picked it up by the collar and held it out towards Donovan, a testament to their failure.

"They were laying for 'im, all right," Parker grumbled. "Poor guy probably never knew what hit him."

"He must've been expecting something like this," Donovan reasoned. "He had to! I mean, we did warn him."

"And he took off nearly an hour earlier than he did in the other timeline," Frank reminded his friend. "He might've thought that would be enough to change things. All it did was give those bastards an extra hour to take him apart." Furious, he slammed the palm of his hand against the wall of the hangar. "They probably had a car hidden in here, just *waiting* for Hobson to come strolling by!" 

Craig studied the readout on the tracking device. "You said they never found his watch?" he asked. "Man, I should've found someplace else to put that bug. According to this, it was dumped somewhere about ten miles north-northeast of here." He pocketed the device with a sigh. "At least we can return it to his family."

Frank wasn't listening. He was staring at a glint of sunlight reflecting off of something nestled in a clump of grass at the base of the wall. Bending down, he picked up a broad leather band. It was padded on one side with what felt like moleskin. Affixed to the other side was a very expensive watch. There were a few stitches lose, and a slight bulge, as if something had been hidden inside. Carefully, Frank worked the object loose with a fingernail. It was a tiny disc, slightly larger than the one they had planted less than two days ago, and dark in color. It was the ruined listening device.

"Hobson, you crafty son of a . . ." Frank stuck the watch in his pocket and grabbed the tracker from Craig. "He still has it," he explained. "He knew they might look for something like that so he took it out and the sneaky son of a gun still has it!"

Craig hurried to catch up as Frank turned and sprinted for their rental car, the GPS and the watch still in his hands. Beating the shorter man by a single stride, Donovan claimed the driver's seat. As they fastened their seatbelts, he turned to his friend with a bemused look.

"How did he know we'd even bugged it?" he asked, sliding the key into the ignition. "I'm sure he didn't see it."

"How does he know any of the things he does?" Frank shrugged. "The guy's no genius, but he's got a lot on the ball, and he thinks fast on his feet. God, I hope we get the chance to know him better. He seems like a hell of a guy."

*********

Gary felt as if he had been dragged through Hell by his wrists. His hands were numb. Blood oozed from where the steel cuffs bit into the swollen flesh. The green flannel shirt he had put on that morning hung in tatters, revealing several shallow cuts that outlined his lower ribs. More cuts crisscrossed his already scarred back and shoulders. Mixed in among these were a few deep, blistering burns. Marley had been amusing himself. 

In spite of the chill in the cavernous space, sweat poured from Gary's forehead, stinging his eyes and mixing with the tears of pain that flowed down his pale cheeks. Sweat also stung the myriad cuts and burns, creating a constant, nagging source of discomfort. By contrast, his mouth and throat felt like very old sandpaper. His breath rasped harshly as he tried to force air past the parched surfaces. Blinking rapidly, he tried to keep the heartless assassin in focus. Tried to look anywhere but at that damned mirror. It was one thing to have to endure Marley's little amusements, it was something else entirely to have to look at the results.

Marley had returned to the table and was now reaching for a small, black, rectangular object. He picked it up and fondled the boxy contraption for a moment before turning back to his 'sport.' 

"Marvelous little device, this," he remarked in a conversational tone. Marley held the device up for Gary's inspection. "A TASER. Normally used for self-defense. This one has been modified slightly, to give one more control over the output. With just the twist of a knob I can deliver anything from a mild jolt to a stunning zap! Or I can prolong the . . . experience with this little dial . . . right . . . here. And these antennae! So wonderfully long and limber. Like metal whips. I can lay open your flesh and then . . . but why waste time describing it. Just tell me what I want to know, or you'll find out first hand just how versatile this little beauty is. What happened to my father? I'm sure he's dead, of course. Otherwise you wouldn't be here, and I would have heard from him long ago. How did he die? Who killed him? What was your part in his demise? Where is he buried? Answer these simple questions and you'll be free in plenty of time to stop those trains from colliding."

Gary tore his fascinated gaze from the TASER to give Marley a startled look. "H-how'd you kn-know 'b-bout the train?" he rasped, his voice raw and hoarse from repeated, and prolonged cries of pain and rage.

"Why, I *engineered* it, of course," Marley chuckled. "Do pardon the pun, dear boy. I couldn't resist." He took great joy in explaining all the machinations he had used to insure Gary's presence, all the while waving those sinister antennae under his victim's face. He chuckled as Gary flinched back when he stroked them caressingly down those tear-stained cheeks. "It took me ages to learn of your existence, and what you were capable of. It wasn't until you called in that pitiful plea to the authorities last September that I finally had a name to work with. I always knew that having people at the switchboards of all those agencies would pay off one day. They passed the word on to me about your warning, and that events occurred *exactly* as you reported, and the rest was just a matter of solidifying our lead. The bit with the train was just to make absolutely sure of you, and to lure you away from familiar ground. Now, answer my questions, and you'll be free to go."

"Y-you really 'spect m-me t' believe that?" Gary replied with a choked laugh. "You'll beat me t' death 'n' . . . still let those t-trains wreck."

Marley calmly extended the twin antennae to their full length and touched them to one of the cuts along Gary's right ribs. When they were firmly in place, he pushed a button down . . . and held it.

Gary screamed! Pain ran through his ribs, along the raw nerve endings of the open wound! And it didn't let up! He tried fleeing from the burning agony, but found he didn't have room to move, stretched as he was. And the pain! Oh, Dear God! *The pain!*

When he was sure that he had made his point, Marley lifted his thumb from the button. The current that had assaulted Gary's nerve endings shut off instantly, but the pain persisted. The young prisoner could only hang limply, trying to draw air into lungs that seemed afraid to work, his breath coming in choked sobs.

"D-damn you," he hissed when he could finally draw breath. "D-damn you to Hell."

"That's not quite the answer I was looking for," Marley smirked, "but I think you get my point. Now, please tell me what I wish to know or I shall be forced to repeat my little demonstration."

Gary just glared at him defiantly, realizing that continued silence was the only card he had left to play. Still, he couldn't help noticing, out of the corner of his eye, Marley's thumb slowly pushing the button home once more. 

He didn't scream this time. He couldn't. The pain was so intense, the muscular contractions so strong that, after an eternity of incredible agony, the chain connecting the steel rings of the handcuffs to the metal crosspiece snapped, and Gary collapsed to the concrete floor in a boneless heap. He lay there, curled into a fetal position and fighting to breathe, finally free of the burning torture of the TASER . . . for the moment.

"Oh my," Marley murmured, surprised at the sudden turn of events. *"That* has never happened before. You must have unusual strength, dear boy. Still, you haven't answered my questions." He pressed the tips of the antennae to one of the cuts on Gary's back. *"Where* is my father?" He pressed the button down, following Gary as he writhed helplessly in a futile effort to escape the pain. *"Who* killed him?" He turned the intensity up a notch, smiling as if Gary's screams were the sweetest music he had ever heard. *"How* are you able to predict events so accurately?" Up another notch. Gary was just trembling now, the pain so intense he couldn't even whimper. It was all he could do just to breathe! Marley turned the juice up another notch. "What . . . ?"

"Kind of animal are you?" Frank Parker growled.

Marley turned his head to see the two agents from the NSA pointing automatics at him and his men. He held the button down, the antennae barely brushing Gary's skin as electricity danced between the tips.

"Drop them," he said, his voice still calm and unruffled. "Drop them or I'll stop his heart." 

"I think you already have," was Donovan's grim response.

Startled, Marley looked down to see that Hobson was no longer moving. In fact, the sweat-drenched figure didn't seem to be breathing! With a muttered curse, Marley lowered the device.

Gary flipped onto his back and lashed out with both feet, catching Marley on the shins! With a strength of will that he was unaware he was even capable of, he had used the distraction provided by the agents to 'play possum,' as Polly would have called it, and catch his tormentor by surprise. His kick sent the soulless villain stumbling back into the bench holding his foul instruments of torture! Gary had intended to aim higher, to deliver the same type of injury he had once, quite by accident, inflicted on a certain alien ruler. His ankles were still fastened to the floor by a foot long length of chain, however, and he had to take what he could get.

As Marley crashed into the table, his henchmen emerged from the shadows, one of them opening fire on the two agents as the other two raced toward Marley and Gary. As Parker and Donovan were forced to duck for cover, one of them helped a furious Marley to his feet. The other had pulled out a key and was unlocking the cuffs by which Gary's ankles were fastened to the steel ring in the concrete floor. As soon as they were free, Gary kicked out again, but he had spent the last of his strength on Marley, and had none left to fend off his captor. The huge man yanked Gary to his feet, intending to sling the smaller man over his shoulders and carry him, if necessary. He paused, turning a bewildered gaze on his prisoner, as if Gary had somehow insulted him.

As Gary watched, horrified, a glistening stain spread across the big man's dark wool sweater. The bewildered gaze turned glassy as a bloody froth trickled down his chin. He gave Gary's shoulder a gentle pat, as if to say he was okay. But he wasn't. Without that same hand to hold him upright, Gary's knees gave out and he tumbled to the floor onto his back. Half a second later, the thug was sprawled across him. As if reliving an old nightmare, Gary once more found himself lying beneath a dying man. Once more felt the rapid flutter of a heart trying to pump too little blood. Felt it stutter . . . and stop. 

With an inarticulate cry, Gary shoved the body aside and rolled as far away as he could, finding a sudden surge of strength born of panic and revulsion! He landed up against a stack of crates and scrambled into a sitting position, every muscle quivering and his heart pounding like a jackhammer. Just a few feet away, Donovan and Parker were crouched behind another barrier of similar makeup. Gary knew he should join them, but he couldn't take his eyes from the corpse of his abductor.

Parker had a good view of Hobson. The other man sat with his back pressed against the crates, his eyes wild as he stared at the dead man. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, his manacled hands trying vainly to wipe the blood from his chest. Hobson was obviously holding on to his sanity with both hands, but it was a shaky hold at best. The man was so close to the edge, a harsh look could push him over!

A bullet struck the crate inches from Gary's unprotected head. He flinched as a spray of splinters scored fresh wounds on his right cheek. With a choked cry, he rolled over to where the two agents were crouched, finally seeming to realize the danger he was in.

"Oh, God," Gary prayed in hushed tones as he huddled in the corner created by the crates and the wall. He had what many called the 'thousand yard stare.' That glazed, unfocused look of someone ready to slip over the edge into insanity. His words came out as a rapid series of shuddering gasps, almost sobs. "Please let me wake up. Please let this just be another nightmare. Please don't make me kill anyone else. Please, Dear God! *Please!"*

"Take it easy, Hobson," Frank tried to reassure the shivering man. "You haven't killed anyone. That was my doing." He paused to fire another shot in the direction of the three kidnappers. "I couldn't let those bastards take off with you again. Where'd you put the locator, by the way? Not in your pockets, is it?" They had to keep Hobson talking, keep him from slipping into shock. From the look of him, hysteria was also something to guard against. 

"M-my shoe," Gary stammered, breaking off in a near-hysterical laugh. "Don't even know why I did it. Wh-while I was w-waiting for the p-pilot to finish ch-checking over the . . . the plane, it just sorta hit me. S-something 'bout my watch. Th-they never found it, did they? D-don't know how I knew. I j-just did, s-so I t-took it out a-and taped it t-to the b-bottom of my f-foot."

"Well thank God you did," Donovan replied with a grin as he, too, fired at the figure kneeling behind a support column. "I was ready to hang it up until we found your watch lying next to that hangar." He cautiously raised his head, ready to duck if there were anymore fireworks. 

Gary cringed as another loud report echoed through the half-empty building. He wasn't sure how much time had passed. His arms felt as if he had been hanging there for ages as Marley played his sadistic games, but Gary sensed that it couldn't have been much more than a couple of hours, if that long. 

"M-my watch," he murmured, relieved to finally have something to focus on. "You s-said you found it?"

"Yeah," Frank shrugged. "Just a few feet from your jacket. Why?"

"Give it to me," Gary said, holding out his hands, which were still bound by the steel cuffs. "I need to . . . to know the time."

Frank pulled the leather band from his pocket and placed it in the shaking hands of the man they were there to rescue. 

"Here ya go," he said. "It's a little after twelve, local time. Sorry it took so long to find you. They've got a bunch of these roads closed for construction."

Gary looked at the time, adjusting for the different time zone, and confirmed Frank's estimate, before stuffing the timepiece into the pocket of his jeans. With the cuffs still fastened in place, there was no way he could strap it around his bloody wrist. He *really* wanted those things off!

"I've got less than two hours to stop those trains," Gary murmured. "Wh-where are we? I-in relation to the s-station, I mean."

"About six miles south and west of it," Craig told him. 'Great,' he thought to himself. 'He's starting to think again. That's a good sign.' "Don't worry, we called the dispatch office before driving out here. Our people will take care of it."

"No!" Gary almost wept with frustration. "H-he has people in the dispatch office! And on the agency switchboard! Your message never went out! A-and he's planted a virus to make it look like everything's okay, but it's not! The only way to switch the lines is . . . is with a manual override of some kind. If it's anything like the train yards of Chicago, I can do that. I've done it before. Whether it's manual or electronic, I know how to work it."

"The only place you're going is to the hospital," Frank told him, not taking his eyes off of the overturned table behind which he thought the three kidnappers might still be crouching. "You're barely able to sit up, let alone handle that switch by yourself."

"Then help me," Gary told him in a quiet voice that belied the pain he was feeling. "I-I have to do this. Please. E-even if it fails, I have to try. I *have* to!"

Gary could see that the agents were wavering. They exchanged troubled glances, ever mindful of the three men crouched on the opposite side of the room. 

"Please," Gary murmured softly. "Help me?"

Frank took one look at those pleading, puppy-dog eyes and spat out a muffled curse as he shook his head. "I'm gonna end up back in Hansen Island for sure," he sighed.

"I'll be in the padded cell next to yours," Craig grumbled. "So how do we get out of here? We have those three in front, and," he paused to check the way they had come in, "two more coming up the drive."

"I'm open to suggestions," Frank shrugged, firing off another round.

Gary pointed at the door directly across from where they crouched. It stood wide open and seemed to lead into an office of some kind. He could see another door, standing half open, apparently leading outside.

"What about through there?" he asked.

Frank judged the distance they would have to cover as less than ten yards. Twenty-five feet at worst. He looked closely at the man they had come to rescue. Hobson looked better than he had a moment ago, but still a little frayed at the edges.

"Can you make it?" he asked, putting the ball directly into Hobson's court.

"Do I have a choice?" Gary shot back.

"Not really," was the grim reply. "Cover us, Donovan." Not waiting for a reply, he grabbed Hobson under the elbow and yanked him to his feet. 

Gary barely had a chance to get his balance before Parker was practically dragging him across the unshielded space. Chips of concrete stung his legs as bullets gouged chunks out of the floor. Something burned along his right arm and his left calf as he dove through the doorway. Breathless, he crouched by the outer door as Parker laid down covering fire for Donovan. As soon as the other man joined them, unscathed, Parker checked the situation from their new vantage point.

"The car is hidden in a bunch of trees half a mile down the road," Donovan told Gary. "I hate to ask you this again, but . . ."

"If there's a key to these damned cuffs at the end," Gary told them, "I'll run all the way to the White House. Now, can we go?"

Wordlessly, Frank pulled out a set of keys and, as Craig covered the door, unlocked the steel rings from Gary's wrists. With a grimace, Gary let them drop to the floor and started to rub the circulation back into his hands. Frank stopped him just in time. Massaging that raw flesh would have hurt like hell! Pulling out a clean handkerchief and tearing it in half, the agent quickly wrapped them to stop the bleeding and keep them free of dirt. He then tore off one of Gary's sleeves to bind the bullet creases on his arm and calf. Hobson started to protest that they didn't have time for that, but a stern look from Parker silenced him. They would *make* the time.

"That'll hold you until we can get you to a doctor," Parker murmured as he tied the ends off on the last one. He studied the man before him, trying to decide whether Hobson could make it the half-mile to the car. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"I'm sure," Gary replied quietly. He pushed himself away from the wall and limped towards the door. "We're wasting time."

************

Only half a mile, but it had seemed like fifty by the time Gary was helped into the back seat of the rented sedan. Everything ached, except for the parts that were screaming in agony or too numb to feel at all. He winced as the cuts and burns on his back came in contact with the rough cloth of the seat. Now that he was off of his feet, his legs wouldn't stop trembling. In fact, it was all he could do to keep from shivering head to toe. Gary felt as if he could drink a river and sleep for a month.

"Y-you wouldn't have any w-water handy, would you?" he asked in a raspy voice. "My, uh-hm, my throat . . . feels like sandpaper."

As Frank started the engine, Craig reached into a bag at his feet and pulled out a bottle of Dasani. He twisted off the cap and handed it back to Hobson, who had to hold the bottle in both of his badly swollen hands.

The water was warm, but it tasted like the sweetest nectar as it soaked into the parched tissues of Gary's throat. He let the first mouthful slide down, loosening the dried layer of mucus, which he quickly spat out the open window. The next one made it all the way down to his stomach and helped ease an ache he had not even been aware of until it was almost gone. He then poured a little into his hand and used it to wipe some of the sweat and dirt from his face. It stung the scratches left by the splinters, but went a long way to helping him feel a little more human.

"Don't drink that too fast," Frank cautioned him. "We're not gonna have time to pull over if you have to hurl."

"I know the drill," Gary nodded. He let the next sip sit in his mouth, savoring the wetness a few seconds before he swallowed, and tried to convince himself that he wasn't all that hungry. "How long do you think it'll take us to get there?"

"If we could drive straight there," Craig grumbled, "twenty minutes. That bastard *had* to pick a spot that was surrounded by road construction, though. With all the detours, probably forty-five minutes to an hour. Will that leave you enough time, do you think? And will you be in any shape to do whatever it is you have to do?"

Gary swallowed another mouthful of the water before answering. "We won't know until we get there, will we?" he replied.

"I still think we should take you straight to the nearest hospital," Parker mumbled. "You look like hell."

"Yeah?" Gary chuckled, surprising the two agents. "Well, if it helps, I feel like hell would be an improvement. And I'll gladly take that ride to the hospital *after* we stop those trains."

"Who *was* that guy?" Frank asked as he navigated the first of many construction sites. "And what was his beef with you?"

"How far back does your file on me go?" Gary asked in return. "Does it mention a guy named J. T. Marley?"

"The guy who tried to assassinate President Tyson," Craig nodded in reply. "He was killed resisting arrest, wasn't he?"

"Not exactly," Gary sighed. "But close enough. He tried to finish the job, even though the police were standing right there. The guy back there was his son, and he wants to know what happened to 'Daddy Dearest.'" He took another sip of the water. His body screamed at him to drain the bottle and demand more, but Gary managed to restrain himself. He was badly dehydrated and knew better than to rush it. This was no time to incapacitate himself with uncontrollable vomiting. "Ya know, h-he's been workin' me over for . . . for at least two, two 'n' a half hours. Marley had to've known a faster way in and out of here."

"Which just means he can get to the station faster than we can," Frank grumbled, "because I only know one way in."

"What if all these . . . these 'construction sites' aren't what they seem?" Gary asked. "Have you checked 'em out?"

Parker and Donovan exchanged chagrined looks. Frank shook his head and sighed. They had pretty much taken things at face value. The next detour they came to, Frank drove straight through. There was no sign of any roadwork or even paving equipment. In fact, there was nothing but a few signs and barricades placed across the road near two crossroads that had led to a veritable maze of back roads. At the other end were a few pieces of heavy equipment. Stage dressing.

"You're starting to embarrass us, Hobson," Frank sighed. "We should've thought of that, ourselves."

"Especially considering it's a Saturday," Donovan chuckled. "How often do road crews work on the weekends?"

"Your minds just aren't twisted enough," Gary murmured. He was fighting, now, to stay awake. The sleep that had completely eluded him the night before was threatening to drag him under. That, plus his recent ordeal, the pain that throbbed through his body, had robbed him of a great deal of his stamina. Like the two agents, he began to have doubts that he would be up to the task before him. If only he could understand why it was so urgent that he be the one to do this? Why not let someone else take over? Someone in better shape, with a more thorough knowledge of what was needed? What if it were one of those old style switches? The kind that had to be operated manually? Did he have the strength left for something like that? Those things required a lot of muscle! "You aren't used to, um, thinking sideways, I guess. Of trying to find the cause before the effect. It's . . . complicated."

"Sounds like," Frank snorted in amusement. "And I thought time-hopping was confusing. Do you even understand a tenth of what you're dealing with?"

"A tenth would be twenty times what I *do* know," Gary sighed. "The more I do this, th-the more it . . . it changes me, the less I understand. I'm sorry. I just don't know any other way to put it. This whole situation is so far out in left field . . . it makes the 'Twilight Zone' look like 'Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood.'"

********

They arrived at the station a little after one o'clock. Frank vividly recalled the details from the previous time line. They had less than forty minutes to divert one of the trains. Getting the local dispatcher to listen was the first step. One of the things that convinced him was the tattered, bloody figure with the two claiming to be agents of the NSA.

"The board is green," the middle-aged man insisted, indicating the complex display with a wave of his hand. He was a lean, sandy-haired man with a hint of the south in his voice. "This, here, is the private train you were talkin' about, and over here is the regularly scheduled run. The express. As you can see, they're not even on the same track."

Gary leaned both hands onto the console, wincing as pain shot up his arms. It did have the beneficial effect of cutting through the wave of dizziness that had momentarily seized him. It took him a second to bring his tired eyes into focus, but he finally realized what it was that had struck him so wrong about the display.

"Look at these tracks," he said, tracing the yellow lines with one finger. "Are they supposed to run parallel like that? You have them following the same route for over fifty miles."

Startled, the dispatcher leaned in for a closer look. Apparently not liking what he was seeing, he tapped out a rapid series of instructions on his keyboard. The display flickered a bit, then steadied back to what they had been seeing. 

"I don't understand this," the man, Arnold Massey according to his name badge, murmured half under his breath. "We don't have any tracks that run together for that distance. Let me see . . . Sweet Jesus! That line doesn't exist!" His fingers flashed over the console as he attempted to make sense of what the board was telling him. "Someone's gotten into the system and created a 'ghost.' They just made the computer kinda . . . see double, then renamed one of the images. I have to divert one of those trains."

"Will the computer let you?" Gary asked hopefully. Maybe his instincts were wrong on this one?

"Normally, yes," was the disheartening response. "Someone has royally buggered my computer, though. It keeps telling me that switching tracks will create the very incident we're trying to prevent. I may have to take the system down and reboot it. That'll take more time than we have." He grabbed a nearby phone and hit the speed dial. "Give me Grossman," he snapped. "What do you mean, he's gone? When . . .? Then you better get on the horn to fire/rescue. Yes, now! We got two trains about to collide. I've already tried that, no response. Either they're not receiving or unable to send. No. No change in speed, either. Try the radio, and keep trying until you get an answer. Tell both of them to reduce speed and prepare to stop. We'll do what we can from here." 

He laid the phone back in its cradle and turned a helpless gaze on his three visitors.

"Our switchman just took off for parts unknown," Massey told them. "I guess that narrows down our list of suspects. It also leaves us with no one 'in house' who can override the computer control at the switch. We don't usually have a lot of traffic here on a weekend, and we only had a skeleton crew. With Grossman gone, there's just me and Beckman. And he's just this side of retirement."

"I can do it," Gary sighed. He looked at Parker and Donovan. "I need a couple of car or truck batteries, and two sets of jumper cables. And a toolkit," he added to the dispatcher. "We'll have to disconnect the switch motor from the system and rig an alternate power source. You may have to replace it later, but it beats the hell out of the alternative."

********

Parker and Donovan quickly located a handcart and removed the batteries from two semi tractors they had found in the freight yard. They looked big enough for the job. The two men quickly hauled them to where Gary already had the cover plate removed from the switch motor, and was disconnecting the power terminals. It had been slow work, his swollen hands barely able to grip the tools, but he had persevered. Gary was just about to say something to the two agents when a loud report rang out! Gravel flew up, creating new furrows in his arm, as something hit the ground just inches from his left thigh. Diving to one side, all three looked around wildly, trying to spot the sniper. At almost the same instant, they heard the faint moan of the trains, sounding their horns as they approached distant crossings. Not distant enough, for Gary's peace of mind.

"You worry about that switch," Frank told Gary, checking his gun. "Let us worry about this bozo." 

"One of us better stay with Hobson," Donovan suggested. "He's kinda out in the open, here."

"Thank you for noticing that," Gary mumbled as he got back to work. He had already used the first set of jumper cables to connect the two huge batteries. The other he was clamping onto the switch motor when another shot rang out. His hands slipped as he instinctively flinched away from the spray of dirt and gravel. Something stung Gary's left cheek, causing him to duck again as he uttered a muffled curse. 'Probably more gravel,' he grimaced, not deterring from his task. Still, he couldn't help an occasional glance over his shoulder. Parker crouched at his side, popping off a shot now and then, forcing the hidden gunmen to keep their heads down. Donovan was slowly working his way towards the small stand of trees from which the shots were coming. Gary finished the connection as Donovan disappeared behind an empty boxcar. He closed his eyes in a brief prayer as he reached for the override.

'Don't do it,' a soft voice whispered.

Startled, Gary looked around for the owner of that voice. Not seeing anyone but himself and Frank, who was facing towards the wooded copse about sixty feet away, he turned back to his task.

'Don't,' the voice cautioned again. It was definitely a woman's voice, speaking in sultry southern tones. 'God doesn't *want* this one stopped,' it crooned.

Still not seeing anyone, Gary decided he was hallucinating. Besides, he figured that if God hadn't wanted this tragedy averted, then nothing Gary could do would make a difference, anyway. So it couldn't hurt to try. He slammed his hand down on the control switch.

Sparks flew as the motor drew on the immense, but mismatched power of the batteries. The tracks juddered . . . and shifted towards their new position. It was working! Gary watched breathlessly as the steel rails slowly repositioned themselves. The voltage from the batteries was not the same as what the motor was used to, and it didn't seem to care for it much. The rails slid over almost in slow motion. The ends only had to curve a couple of feet, but it was taking forever!

'It's not going to work,' that sultry voice crooned. 

"Yes, it is," Gary whispered to himself. "It's got to!"

"Did you say something?" Parker asked, just before he loosed a shot at the woods. He was rewarded with a muffled yelp of pain.

"N-nothing," Gary replied, unable to take his eyes from those glimmering steel rails as they slid to a juddering halt! "Damn!" he hissed, flinching as more sparks flew from the whining motor, only now they were accompanied by streamers of smoke! "The motor burned out! I'll have to finish it by hand!" he told Parker. Scrambling onto his feet, he grabbed a steel bar, kept by the switch for such purposes, and jammed it into the narrowest space created by the shifting rails. The forlorn sound of that, now, not-so-distant horn, spurred him like a whip. He braced his feet against the outer rail, ignoring the agony running up his arms as he *pushed* down on the rod with all his weight! Nothing happened.

'It's not going to work.'

Gary looked up from his task to see a darkly shimmering figure standing before him. It was a beautiful young woman with skin the color of coffee, with extra cream. Dark eyes smoldered at him from her elfin features. Although Gary could not recall ever having met anyone like her, she seemed strangely familiar.

"It's *got* to work," he mumbled, turning back to his Herculean task. Gary planted his feet more firmly against the track bed, his heels wedged against the rails. Putting his shoulder against the rod, he pushed down, beads of sweat popping out all over his back and shoulders as he slowly brought all of his weight and strength to bear. "It's got to," he repeated, flinching as another bullet *spanged *off the top of the bar.

Frank started to put his pistol away, intending to help Gary, when another shot rang out. Something plucked at the tatters of Gary's left sleeve as he put more of his weight to bear on the lever. Parker spun back into a crouch, popping off three more shots in rapid succession. 

'You can't succeed,' she told Gary. 'If you keep trying, God will punish you.'

"Let him," was Gary's grim reply. "If I just stand by and let this happen, I'm damned anyway." Did he feel something shift? He applied a little more effort. 'Keep it steady,' he reminded himself. 'You only have this one shot left.'

"You talkin' to me, Hobson?" Frank asked, still facing the woods, gun at the ready. "You need my help?"

"W-wouldn't hurt," Gary grimaced. The rail seemed stuck. Maybe the motor had run into an obstruction of some kind? If they could just work it loose!

Parker grasped the bar from the other side, adding his weight to Gary's. The sudden increase in force caused the rail to give a little. They gained a precious inch or two before the next shot rang out! Gary dropped as something burned along the right side of his head, stunning him! Dimly, as if from a tremendous distance, he heard Parker return fire. Gary grimly hung onto consciousness, intent on finishing his task. Head throbbing, blood pouring from the crease just above his right ear, he used the bar to pull himself erect. It took him a moment to clear his head, then Gary once more had his shoulder firmly planted and set to work. 

'Are you willing to risk your eternal soul for people you don't even know?' the dark angel, or so Gary now thought of her, asked in derisive tones. 'People who point fingers at you? Who accuse you of terrible crimes? Who call you insane or delusional? You would risk hellfire and damnation for these petty *mortals?'*

"Yes," Gary grunted. Why couldn't she just shut up? Couldn't she see what this was costing him? What it was taking out of him just trying to get that stubborn switch to crawl a few more precious inches? It *did* move! *Thank God!* Just a fraction, but he'd definitely felt it move! Could he get it done in time to jump out of the way? To at least remove the bar before the train hit it and risk possible derailment, anyway? He could actually feel the vibrations through the rails as both trains rushed to meet their fate! "Every life . . . is precious," he told the dusky figure.

'You will burn in Hell *forever,'* the translucent figure hissed. 'God commands that you *desist* in your efforts. That you *let* this transpire according to His will.'

Was she getting a little anxious, Gary wondered? Good. That made two of them. He could hear the trains, now. Realized, belatedly, that he had been hearing them for several minutes, but had been too dazed from his injuries, too intent on his task to notice. They were so close! Gary paused in his efforts, trying to gather the strength for one more attempt. If only he didn't hurt so much! With an agonizing groan, he put the last of his faltering strength into one final *push!* As he felt the rails move, Gary looked up at the furious, yet still beautiful visage, flashing her a look of defiance.

"Then I'll see you in Hell," he grunted . . . as the rails clicked home! 

Gary barely had time to yank the rod free and stagger out of the way as the private train, carrying its cargo of political dynamite, roared onto the siding. Brakes squealed as the engineer, having finally been alerted as to what was happening, threw everything into slowing down the hurdling behemoth. The last car had cleared the junction by less than a yard when the larger train roared by with a prolonged blare of its horn! Underneath that, Gary was certain he had heard a chilling shriek, like a banshee's wail of anger and frustration.

Breathless, Gary stood off to one side, hands braced on his knees in a runners crouch as he tried to marshal his remaining strength. He was exhausted, barely able to keep his feet. His back, arms, and sides hurt like a son of a gun, and his head throbbed in several places, but none of his injuries was serious. Marley had been out to inflict pain more than physical damage. Gary had a feeling that the sadistic SOB had been saving the 'fun stuff' for later, after he had gotten his answers.

"By God, you did it!" Frank crowed, throwing an arm around Gary's shoulders and giving him a rough embrace. In his enthusiasm, he had forgotten the damage to the taller man's back.

"Th-thank you, Lord," Gary whispered, flinching from the pain. He turned to where the smaller train was just braking to a halt near the platform. Somehow, he had known that the dark figure was lying to him. And even if she hadn't, what did it matter? If he'd simply stood back and *let* all those people die, *knowing,* or even *hoping,* that he could've saved them, Hell would've seemed a small price to pay. Suddenly overcome with relief and exhaustion, Gary sank to his knees on the gravel rail bed. Parker squatted next to him, concern written all over his lean features.

"You okay?" he asked, then grimaced as he took in the other man's condition. "That was a stupid question, wasn't it?" he added as he tried to stop Gary's head from bleeding with another strip of green flannel.

"Y-yeah," Gary chuckled. "I-I'd have to say it was." He was only able to stay erect by bracing his hands on his thighs. Holding his head upright was just too much to ask, so he let it hang down as he fought just to stay awake. "H-hope that . . . that ambulance gets here quick. I'm runnin' outta sh-shirt, and I f-feel lousy."

"You look like death warmed over," Frank chuckled. "But you did it, Hobson. You stopped the trains from derailing, and saved a lot of lives. To tell you the truth, I didn't think you had enough left in you to even try."

"N-neither did I," Gary admitted shakily.

Donovan came running up just as the express cleared the station. He reported that one man was in custody, another was dead, leaving Marley and two others unaccounted for.

"He won't be far," Gary surmised. He straightened up with a slow shake of his head, trying to take more interest in his surroundings. It was just so hard to concentrate! And where had that woman gone? The one who had tried to dissuade him? Why had no one else seen her? "I d-don't think he's finished with me, yet."

"Probably not," Parker agreed. "Bastard's still out there, somewhere, just waiting for another chance . . ."

Something struck Gary a sledgehammer blow and he cried out in pain as a shot rang out, causing the people spilling out onto the platform to duck amid shrieks of terror! He sagged against Parker, blood welling from a bullet wound in his left shoulder, as Donovan returned fire! There was an answering curse as Craig's bullet found its mark, followed by a thrashing in the bushes as their quarry fled the scene. 

Frank eased Gary to the gravel strewn ground, tearing off the remaining sleeve from Hobson's flannel shirt to use as a pressure bandage. Parker could see a great deal of blood, but none of it was spurting, thank God! The bullet had hit a large vein, most likely, but not an artery. Gary's right hand clutched at Frank's jacket as he gritted his teeth against the pain. 

"Christ," he rasped, his voice tight and low. "S' different ever time, y' know? Di'n' hurt this bad l-last time. God!"

"Take it easy, Hobson," Frank murmured. "Help's on its way." At least he hoped it was. He looked up to where Secret Service men were herding the Vice President and his family back inside the train. A couple were headed their way, guns drawn. "Craig's gone after the shooter, and we already had a call in to fire/rescue, remember?"

"Good," Gary nodded, wincing. His grip tightened momentarily as another spasm ripped through him. "No morphine," he gasped.

"What's that?" Frank asked, not sure he'd heard right. "No morphine? Are you sure? You're talkin' about an awful lotta pain here, pal."

"P-pos'tive," the injured man stammered. "W-withdrawal's a b . . . ah, *Christ! * I can't f-feel my arm!"

"Gary?"

Weak, dizzy, and on the verge of passing out, Gary nonetheless recognized that voice. A voice he hadn't heard in more than five years. Slowly, he turned his head to look up at the woman in the gray trench coat who was kneeling beside them. She was just as lovely as he remembered, her dark auburn hair spilling out from beneath her dark green tam, those lovely hazel eyes glistening with concern and surprise. Next to her was a man holding a very professional looking camera.

"Gary Hobson?" she asked in amazement. "Wh-what are . . . What just happened here? H-how did you . . .?"

"M-Mer'dith?" he murmured, fighting against the grayness encroaching on his vision. "Wh-where'd you . . .? Th-the train? Y-you were on the t-train?" he asked in dawning horror. 

"Yes," she told him. Taking off her scarf, she folded it tightly and slipped it over the wad of flannel Frank was still pressing to his wounded shoulder. "I'm with the White House Press Corps, now. Oh, God, Hobson," she sighed. "I've always been afraid it would come to something like this."

"You two know each other?" Frank asked, feeling a little baffled. 

"Y-yeah," Gary replied drowsily. He had not been in top shape before he was shot. Now, it was an uphill battle just to remain conscious. "F-Frank Parker. Mer'dith C-Carson. W-Wash'ton Post."

Before Frank could bemoan the presence of a reporter, they were interrupted by shrill cries of 'Mommy! Mommy!' Looking up, he saw a small boy come running in their direction. He was a handsome child, with thick dark hair and amazingly clear brown eyes. No, not quite brown, Frank realized. They had a greenish cast. More of a mud puddle green. Where had he . . .? His own eyes widened in understanding as he looked down at the man cradled in his arms.

Gary was staring with a stunned look of astonishment, and pain, at the boy that Meredith had turned to embrace, comforting the child as he gave a plaintive cry, frightened by the sight of so much blood! The boy couldn't have been more than four, maybe five years old. And his eyes! As Gary's vision once more began to fade, he focused on those clear, wide, innocent eyes. Eyes the exact same color . . . as his own.

********

Gary once more found himself in that place he could only think of as 'between.' He was sitting on the counter in O.R. #3, his arms wrapped around the leg that his chin was resting on, and watching as the doctors worked to repair the damage done by Marley's bullet. How he could be so sure it was Marley, Gary didn't know, but he was. 

"Yes," Andrew told him, stepping into the room through the wall. "It was definitely Mr. Marley. You didn't exactly make a friend, there."

Gary gave the Angel of Death a sideways look of annoyance. "You make that sound like I deliberately ticked him off," he grumbled. "I don't suppose you've considered that I didn't ask for any of this? And who was that woman? The one that tried to scare me off?"

"You don't remember her from before?" Andrew countered. "Think back. You were in that hospital in Los Angeles. Recovering from a snakebite?"

Leaning back against the cabinets, (and how could he sit and lean on things that he could walk through, he wondered?) Gary thought back to the events Andrew had referred to. He'd been flown in from that camp where they were supposed to help him adjust to being paralyzed from the hips down. He had no clear recollection of that time, mainly because the venom had induced *total* paralysis, requiring that he be put on a respirator until he either recovered . . . or died. Thanks to a serum that Dr. Janet Fraiser of 'Project Bluebook' had tailored from God only knew what resources, he had lived.

"It was just after you woke up," Andrew reminded him. "Monica was there, too."

"She . . . she wanted my soul," Gary murmured, as memory came flooding back. "Katherine? No. Kathleen. She's . . . sad. Not really evil, just . . . she's afraid. Of what?"

"Failure," Andrew replied with a shrug. "She serves a dark master, now. He can't believe that God could create someone who would place the value of his conscience over that of his own soul. That someone would actually choose to do the *right* thing, even if it meant damnation."

"Did he?" Gary murmured distractedly. He was engrossed by the grim tableau as the doctors tried to remove the bullet without severing the brachial nerve. It looked like it could go either way from what they were saying. Did that mean he could lose the use of his left arm?

"Gary," the Angel of Death chuckled, "what did *you* just do?"

"Hmm?" Gary tore his attention from the surgeons to shoot Andrew a puzzled look. "What do ya mean? I stopped those trains from wrecking! What was I *supposed* to do? Let all those people die? I don't think so!"

"Even when she told you God *wanted* that wreck to happen? That you would be damned for eternity if you stopped them?"

"No *way* could I believe that *that* was what God wanted," Gary replied vehemently. "Not the God *I* was taught to believe in. If I'm wrong, that's *my* lookout. Earthquakes, floods, natural disasters, I can see *those* happening according to some sorta plan, but *this?* This was Man's doing, and I can't see God's hand behind it anywhere. Besides, my . . . my son was on that train. My son." He murmured the last two words in an awed whisper. 

"Then you see clearer than most," Andrew nodded approvingly. "And you didn't even know the child existed until after it was all over. Don't worry, though. Your soul is still in good hands."

"So why this?" Gary asked, waving one hand to indicate the two of them, the other gesturing towards his body on the operating table. His still living, breathing body. "A-am I . . .dying?"

"No," Andrew quickly assured him. "This is just to touch bases. How much do recall from . . . that other time?"

"What other . . .?" Then he remembered. Not things as they had just happened, but as they would have happened if not for the intervention of the chrononaut, Frank Parker. "I died," he whispered, his eyes widening as they drifted to the still form on the table, surrounded by the surgical team. "I died, and . . . and you told me . . . You showed me . . . things. M-Mom, Dad, M-Marissa was . . . Why? Why did you want me to remember something like that?"

"I didn't want to," Andrew replied with a sad shake of his head. "I had to see if you would. To most people, those events never happened. Even to the people of Project Back Step, with the exception of Frank Parker, they're just possibilities of what *might* have been. You're unique because of the many ways that dealing with the Paper has changed you. The choice to retain those memories, or not, is still up to you at this point. Do you *want* to keep them? Locked away in a secret part of your mind?"

"No." He didn't even have to think about it. Gary had no need, or desire, to remember the look on his parents' faces as the monitor showed that he had breathed his last, the way his mother had wept as she started to put away his things. The pain and torture his body had endured at Marley's hands had been as nothing compared to the pain his spirit had undergone, watching them fall apart and wanting so badly to console them! Nor did he want to remember the look on Marissa's face as Emmett had tried to console *her.* Or the shrill sound of twisted metal as the two trains collided, the screams of the dying. The silence of the dead. "Take it all," he said. "Or, if you can't take all of it, don't make me relive their pain. I don't *ever* want them to suffer like that again, even in my nightmares."

Andrew favored Gary with an understanding smile. Sometimes, the angel wondered just what God had planned for this kind-hearted soul that he was forced to endure so much. Wordlessly, he followed Gary's worried gaze back to the table where the surgical team was just cleaning him up. The procedure had been completed while his attention had been on Andrew, and Gary was left wondering at the outcome.

"Do you think they . . . I mean . . . m-my arm," he stammered. "Will I be still able to use it?"

"Why don't we let you wake up and find out?" Andrew suggested kindly.

**********

It was sometime late that evening when Gary did, finally, wake up. The first thing he was aware of was that gosh-awful taste in his mouth! Not to mention that gunky feeling crud that seemed to coat everything. With a soft moan, Gary licked dry lips with a tongue that felt three times its normal size and rougher than sandpaper. Something soft and moist brushed against his mouth, and a few drops of blessed moisture found their way in. He was then aware of pain. Mostly in his left shoulder, and across his back, where Marley had played 'connect the dots' with a red-hot iron. Also the right side of his head ached as if someone had struck it with a sledgehammer. His right wrist throbbed with each heartbeat. There was a moment of panic when he realized that he couldn't feel his left arm! 

"Take it easy, hon," a familiar, and much loved voice crooned. "The doctors said there's still some swelling around the nerve, but that you're going to be fine."

"M-Mom?" he murmured in a dry, raspy croak. "H-how . . .?"

"We got a call from someone named Parker," she told him. "He just said that you were hurt and that a private plane was waiting at the airport. Does he have anything to do with what happened to you?"

"S-saved me," Gary replied with a barely perceptible nod. He'd yet to pry his eyes open. The lids were just too heavy! "G-good man. C-cares . . ." He tried to think. There was something it seemed he should remember, but it kept slipping from his mind. "H-he's okay? A-and Donovan?"

"One of these days," Lois Hobson sighed, "you're going to wake up from one of your little escapades and forget to ask about someone else. Then I'm going straight to the window and start watching the heavens."

"Hmm? Wh-why?" Gary mumbled softly. He was starting to drift back to sleep.

"Because, sweetie," Lois chuckled as she tugged the covers up to his chin, "it'll mean the world is about to end, and I don't want to miss it."

**********

Sunday February 24, Washington, D.C. 0930 hrs

The next time Gary awakened, it was to the murmur of voices somewhere close by. He pried his eyes open with tremendous effort, blinking rapidly against the glare of light from the window. Groggily, he turned his face away from the brightness. Only then did he see the people clustered by the doorway. 

"Hey," he murmured in a soft croak. "Wha's go'n' on?"

One of the blurry figures turned towards him, his face split in a big grin. Bernie Hobson touched his wife on the arm and nodded his head at Gary. 

"Sleeping Beauty awakes," he quipped. Stepping quickly up to the bed, Lois at his side, Bernie placed a hand over Gary's right one. "How ya feelin', kiddo?" he asked.

"Ya really don' wanna know," Gary rasped drowsily. Should it be this hard to focus, he wondered? "They no' gi'in' mo'phin'?"

"No morphine," Lois assured him. "They might be a little heavy with the Demerol, however." She touched his cheek with the back of her fingers. "Your fever's down," she reported, "and you don't look as pale as you did last night. Seriously, hon, how do you feel?"

"Thirsty," Gary mumbled with a little more clarity. He tried once more to focus on the two men standing by the door. "D-do I know you? Y-you look kinda f'miliar"

The two men stepped forward, almost to the foot of the bed. One was a tall, very handsome, dark haired man who looked to be in his late thirties or early forties. For some reason, Gary thought he was probably older than he appeared.

The other man was shorter, stockier, and obviously somewhat older, with a broad, intelligent face. His hair was also dark, with streaks of gray starting to show. He gave Gary a pleasant smile as he stepped a little closer.

"I've been told I have one of those faces," the shorter man replied. "Although we have been in the news quite a bit, lately."

"C'mon, Gar!" Bernie chuckled. "You know these guys. You *voted* for 'em!"

It took Gary a moment, but his drugged mind finally kicked into gear. "P-Pres'dent Bartlett?" he murmured in awe. "Vice Pres'dent Hoyne? Wh-wha' cha doin' here?"

"I'll put that down to the medication," John Hoyne chuckled. He walked around to the far side of the bed, placing a hand lightly on Gary's heavily bandaged shoulder. "I wanted to thank you in person for what you did. That took a great deal of courage and determination, Mr. Hobson. You saved a lot of lives yesterday. Not just mine, but everyone I hold dear. I can't begin to tell you how grateful we all are."

"Jus' did," Gary replied with a tired grin. He started to reach his good hand over to shake the Vice President's before he realized he didn't really have one. The swelling had gone down in his hands, but his right wrist still throbbed like a tom-tom. The left arm was still numb. "Um, y-you're we'come, " he winced.

President Josiah Bartlett cleared his throat nervously before stepping up beside his Vice President, both hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. 

"It was brought to our attention," he said, rocking back and forth on his feet, "that this isn't the first, or even second, time that you have risked your life for others. In fact, according to a Mr. Frank Parker, you have been witnessed in at least five or more such rescues in just the past week. He, um, also said that you were well known at the local hospitals." He paused to give Gary an incredulous look. "Do they *really* keep a room reserved for you?"

"The Hobson Suite," Gary chuckled as he fumbled for the bed controls. Why did every hospital put them in different places, he wondered? And where was the water? His throat was parched! "Jus' Cook County. Seem t' end up there mos' times."

"Well," Vice President Hoyne smiled, "we, President Bartlett and myself, would like to give you the recognition you deserve. With your permission, we were hoping you would accept our invitation to have dinner with us at the White House once you're well enough to be released."

"Your parents told us you might object to a public award ceremony," President Bartlett explained, clearly puzzled by that revelation. "Is there any particular reason why? You're not wanted or anything, are you?"

"No' la'ly," Gary murmured, although the words stirred up some bad memories. "I-I jus' don' like all the 'tention," he told them. "Tha's no' why I d-do it. B-but dinner soun's great. I'd b-be honored, sir." His brow furrowed into a sleepy frown as he turned to his mother. "You said tha' was Demerol? Tha's what they gave me las' time, I think," he grumbled when she nodded. "Need to put tha' on muh list."

"I'll be sure to mention that to your doctor," she promised. "No more Demerol. What about Toradol? You've had pretty good results from that."

"Yeah," Gary nodded. "Tor'dal. Soun's good. Dinner soun's good, too. Wadder?"

"Hmm? Oh, water," his mother translated. "Not yet, dear. But you can have one of these, um, 'yummy' pre-moistened sponge-pops. I think it's supposed to replace ice chips. You have your choice of lemon, grape, or cherry."

Gary chose grape, eyeing the 'flower' shaped sponge on a stick dubiously. He finally allowed his mother to put it in his mouth, grimacing as he tried to ease the dryness with the meager amount of lubrication in the tiny sponge.

"Pard'n the pun," he muttered around the obstruction, "bu' thish shucks."

************

Gary drifted in and out of consciousness most of that day. Partly from the head injury, partly due to the lingering effects of the anesthesia, and mainly from the large doses of Phenergan they kept giving him for nausea. He needed a *lot* of Phenergan. 

It was some time later that evening when he awakened to find Meredith sitting by the head of his bed. She was leafing through a stack of what looked to be photographs as she waited for him to open his eyes.

"Hi," he murmured. "Where ya been?"

"Well, hello, stranger," she responded with a nervous smile. "I've been getting my son settled in. All the excitement yesterday still has him keyed up." She noticed that his gaze was fixed on what her hands were holding. "Oh. I was just choosing the best picture for the article we're running tomorrow. It's not often that a reporter finds herself in the middle of the story of a lifetime. So, how do you feel?"

"O-okay, I guess," he replied doubtfully. It took him a moment to recall the little boy at the train station. The one that had called her 'Mommy.' "N-nice lookin' boy. He's, what, a-almost five?"

"The end of July," Meredith admitted, finally meeting his eyes. "His name is Geran, after a child in a series of books I've grown fond of. The . . . the son of a, um, a sorcerer king named Garion. We call him Gary."

Even in his muddled, pain clouded state, Gary was quick to make the connection. He quickly turned his head away to hide the stricken look that crossed his face. 'We.' She'd clearly said 'we call him Gary.' He'd made *that* connection, also.

"Gary . . ." she murmured.

"Don't," he said, turning back to her with a strained smile. "I'm happy for you. I-it's kinda like you . . . you named him after me. S-sorta."

"If you'll let me explain," she began, only to have Gary cut her off again.

"Please," he said. "Don't. I-I'm not stupid, Meredith. I saw . . . saw the resemblance right away. Y-you haven't done anything that needs . . . needs explaining. Are you happy?"

"Yes," she told him candidly. "We're very happy. Edward loves Geran as if he were his real . . . real father." She suddenly seemed to find something fascinating about her hands. "He's been very good t-to both of us."

"Th-then that's all that matters, isn't it?" Gary went on, unable to keep *all* of the pain out of his voice. "Y-you never intended f-for me to know, did you?" Silence. "That's wh-what I thought. It's okay. It's not *right,* b-but it's okay. For now. I want to get to know him someday, Meredith. I want that with all my heart. B-but I can't fight you over s-something like this. It wouldn't be fair to . . . to Geran. Or you."

Wordlessly, Meredith nodded her agreement, relief etched in every line of her body. She fumbled with the stack of pictures as she tried to marshal her thoughts.

"D-do you still . . .?" she started to ask, then appeared to think better of it.

"Everyday," Gary replied with a dry chuckle. "How'd ya think I ended up here?"

"Um, I guess I hadn't thought that far," she admitted with a tentative smile. "So much for my reporter's instincts. I was just so shocked to see you there, and you looked so . . . Okay, I admit it. You scared the hell out of me. Satisfied?"

"Should I be?" Gary countered. "Do you think th-this is some sorta competition as to wh-whose life turned out better? C-cause I hate to d-disappoint you, but you'd win hands down."

"Then why don't you want to know about your child?" There, she'd actually said it. It was all out in the open, now. At least between the two of them. "You saved our lives, Gary! If you hadn't have stopped those two trains from colliding . . . You have a right to know!"

"Do I?" Gary sighed. "What I *want,* and what you feel I have a *right* to, doesn't matter. This . . . this *thing* I'm involved in, it's taken a-a lot of crazy twists and turns. It's gotten to be . . . dangerous. Th-there are people . . .*evil* people out there who want me dead. O-one of them did this to me," he added, indicating the bandages. "D-do you really think I'm so . . . so selfish, that I'd subject *m-my own son* to that kind of risk? If you do, then you never knew me at all."

"I guess I never thought of it that way," Meredith sighed, seeing his point. She laughed as a funny thought occurred to her. "We really didn't have a lot of *time* to get to know each other, did we? A little over a month, at best. Then, when I took that job at the Post . . . I took it because I just couldn't compete with . . . with the forces that were taking over your life. Or with how . . . incorruptible you are. But you . . . you never saw it that way. It's not a tool in your eyes. It's a responsibility that you take so . . . seriously! You've let it consume all the joy out of your life, and never asked for anything in return. Now, I tell you that . . . that what you've always wanted *most* out of life . . . a child . . . that you may never . . . and you just accept it! Doesn't it make you angry? Don't you want to just . . . just *rage* at the injustice of it all? With everything you've done . . . that you've sacrificed . . . Then you come back into our lives just when we need you the most. It's not fair that you can't . . ."

"That's enough," Gary told her, his soft words cutting through her anger. "Wh-what I feel, o-or don't feel isn't the issue here. Anymore than what I want. What good would it do me to get . . . I-I have to think about what's best for Geran. And for you." He turned his face away, not wanting her to look too closely. "I-I think you'd better go, now. Y-you have a . . . a son to take care of."

He heard the chair scrape back as she wordlessly prepared to leave. Licking his lips he fought down the urge to call her back, to plead with her to let him be a part of the child's . . . his son's life. It was a desire stronger than any physical pain he had ever felt! There were still questions, though, that he just had to ask.

"M-Meredith?"

She paused, one hand on the door, as she half turned in response to that plea. "Yes?"

"He doesn't know, does he?" Gary asked, his face still averted. "A-about me? B-being his f-father, I mean."

"No," she almost whispered. "He thinks Edward . . ."

"Good," Gary responded, a little too quickly. "W-we shouldn't . . . shouldn't confuse him. You, um, you've been a g-great mother, so far. I, um, I don't think he could be in b-better hands."

"Thank you," she murmured in reply. Meredith wiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks, relieved not to have him watching her with those incredibly expressive eyes. Her hand tugged at the door handle.

"We were never really in love," he sighed, "were we." It wasn't really a question.

"I think we wanted to be," she told him, her head bowed, still facing the door. "I think we both wanted it very much. We just never had the time to . . . to let it grow. Things happened too fast."

"I won't ever see you again, will I? Either of you."

"Probably not," she whispered. "B-but, you never know. A-anything can happen."

"Yeah," Gary murmured softly. "Anything can happen. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," Meredith sniffled as she finally opened the door. She quickly stepped through, pulling it shut behind her. Leaning against the wall for a moment, she fought to get herself under control. It wouldn't do for Little Gary to see her like this. He was already asking awkward questions. She dried her eyes and straightened up, composing herself physically as well as mentally. As she strode purposefully down the corridor, she cast one more glance back.

"I will always love you, Gary Hobson," she murmured. "Just not the way you need me to."

Inside the lonely hospital room, Gary silently cried himself to sleep.

***********

Monday February 25, Washington D.C. 0800 hrs

The sun was streaming in through the window again when Gary next opened his eyes. He had lost all sense of time as he drifted in and out of consciousness, but thought it must be morning. Most of his body throbbed like a sore tooth, but his mind seemed clearer, sharper. The pain in his head seemed to have dulled somewhat, too. Even better, his left arm was throbbing from wrist to shoulder. It was a welcome pain, as it meant that he would soon regain full use of his extremity. He just wished pain didn't have to hurt so bad!

"Morning, sunshine," a cheery voice spoke up from the doorway. 

Pain shot up Gary's back and neck as he turned a little too quickly. Cursing softly, he shifted his body a little more carefully. He looked over to where his parents were just closing the door. Bernie was carrying a large basket of fresh cut flowers which he set on the table by the door.

"Feelin' better this mornin', kiddo?" his dad asked as he held the chair for Gary's mom. "You look almost human."

"Don't mind him, dear," Lois sighed as she got comfortable. "You look a *lot* better than yesterday. More rested, at least. How do you feel?"

"S'all right," Gary murmured. His brow wrinkled as he tried to remember a few details from the previous day. "Did I really meet the President yesterday?" he asked. "A-and the Vice President?"

"Yes, sweetie," Lois chuckled. "You really did. With half a dozen Secret Service men standing out in the hallway while they waited for you to wake up."

"They said to tell you that they'll give us a little advance notice on that dinner," Bernie told him. "At least a day or two. We figure you'd want that much time to get your 'land legs' back, before getting all dressed up."

Gary was still finding it all hard to believe, and a little scary. What if all the notoriety caused the Paper to stop coming? It couldn't go to Lindsay! She was still much too young to handle something like that! Then he saw what his mother was trying very hard *not* to let him see. 

"What does the Paper say?" he asked softly. 

Lois' smile faltered as she opened it to the front page. "We've already called Peter," she told him as she showed him the headline about a major traffic accident. It was due to happen in the next ten minutes. "I even faxed him a copy of the article."

"Put it away, for now," Gary said. There was nothing he could do but trust in his friend, and God, that things were in good hands. "We'll look at it again, later. So, what've you guys been doing while I'm stuck in here?"

"Not much," his dad shrugged. "Sittin' in here most of yesterday, had dinner with the White House chief of staff last night. He's a pretty nice guy. Met the President's chief advisor, a coupla guys from Public Relations, and the Press Secretary. They can't *wait* to meet *you."*

"Wonderful," Gary sighed miserably. "More publicity. Just what I need."

"We've been telling the reporters that we don't want your name or picture plastered in every paper across the country," Lois said, taking his right hand in both of hers. "We explained about how we were afraid that the lunatic behind the sabotage would be able to use that information to track you down. M-maybe even kill you. Most of them could see how your safety outweighed their First Amendment rights, but not all. What did you tell that woman who snuck in here last night? The one who told the nurses that she was an old girlfriend?" she asked, genuinely concerned.

"She really *was* an old girlfriend," Gary assured them. "She knows not to print anything we discussed last night." He debated whether or not to tell his parents about Geran, and decided it would serve no good purpose. Why break their hearts by telling them that, yes, they finally had a grandchild? One that they might never, ever see. "She was on the train, and wanted to see how I was doing," he added by way of explanation. "That's all."

"Good," Lois sighed with relief. "That's a load off my mind. Oh, Gary! When they called and said you'd been hurt . . .! I-I had all these awful visions of you in another coma, or being kept alive b-by machines! It was horrible!"

Tears welled in Gary's eyes as he envisioned the torment they must have endured. He gave his mother's hand a gentle squeeze as he murmured a heartfelt apology. "I-I'm sorry, Mom."

"Don't be," she sniffled. "It's part of the job, I suppose, and I don't want you worrying about what I think. You were chosen for this over countless other candidates, I'm sure. They picked you because you care too deeply to let *so much* tragedy keep happening. You have a good heart, Gary Hobson, and don't you dare let anyone change that! It's one of the things we all love about you."

"One of the things that make us proud to be your parents," Bernie added, his tone serious for once. "God knows, we don't want to go through anything like the last coupla years, but it's all part of who you are. Whatever happens, we'll be there for you."

Gary didn't know what to say. Not since the accident that had left him in a wheelchair, for most of a year, had any of them had the courage to acknowledge his mortality. That he could, and most likely would, die in the service of the Paper and the forces behind it. 

A soft knock on the door saved Gary from a potentially embarrassing silence. Bernie rushed to open the door, ready to turn back overzealous reporters, if he had to. Instead, he revealed the two men who had been instrumental in saving Gary's life. 

"F-Frank, Craig," Gary said with a relieved grin. "Hi! C'mon in!" He quickly introduced the two agents to his parents. "These are the guys that, literally, pulled my fat from the fire," he added. 

They shook hands all around, with Lois' gaze lingering on Frank.

"You're the one that called us," she said. "And made the flight arrangements."

"Yes, ma'am," Parker nodded, looking strangely ill at ease. As an orphan, he had a lot of sympathy and respect for parents who showed so much love and concern for their children. Even the grown-up ones. "I-I just figured you'd want to be here when he woke up."

Lois pulled him into a warm embrace, releasing him quickly as she wiped tears of gratitude from her eyes. 

"Thank you," she said. "You have no idea how much we appreciate what you've done."

Recalling that other timeline, the way she had touch her son's hand as she . . . they . . . gave him permission to die, the look of devastation on their faces as the EEG traces flattened to nothing, Frank was pretty sure he knew all too well what it meant to them.

"You're welcome," was all he said. "We, um, we just came by to see how you were doing before we head out west."

"D-did you get to see your son while you were in town?" Gary asked, stifling the twinge of pain that innocent question had cost him.

"We missed out on his pageant," Frank shrugged. "It was a disaster, from what they tell me, but we made up for it with pizza and miniature golf."

"Sounds like fun," Bernie chuckled. "We've been after Gar, here, to give us a coupla grandkids to spoil, but he thinks he's missed the boat. I keep tellin' 'im not to give up. That there's someone out there, just waitin' for a handsome guy like him to come along and sweep her off her feet. But *he* keeps puttin' the broom back in the closet!"

"Bernie!" Lois admonished, her face scarlet. "What a thing to say! And after you gave Gary your solemn promise not to embarrass him like that . . . again!"

But Gary wasn't listening. He was thinking of a certain little boy with mud puddle green eyes. His eyes. As his mother made Bernie apologize to Gary and his two guests, he looked up to meet Frank Parker's sympathetic gaze, and knew that the agent was thinking of exactly the same thing.

"Um, if you don't mind," Frank murmured, "I need to . . . to debrief Gary about what happened Saturday. In private," he added, giving Craig a significant glance.

"Don't mind us," Lois replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. "We'll just . . ."

"Take a little walk with me," Craig finished, to her chagrin. "Some of what they have to discuss is classified," he said apologetically. "And some is downright embarrassing. Let's give them a little breathing space. Okay?"

Putting a hand under Lois's elbow, and one on Bernie's upper arm, Donovan led the protesting couple to the door. Lois turned to give her son a look of open concern.

"S'okay, Mom," Gary rasped reassuringly. "It won't take long."

"You're sure, hon?"

"Go on," he smiled. "I'll be fine."

As the door, finally, closed behind them, the smile faltered as Gary turned his troubled gaze on the NSA agent. Frank sauntered up to the foot of the bed and carefully sat down.

"So," he sighed. "You haven't told them."

"What would be the point?" Gary murmured. "Why tell them about a grandchild they'll never get to see?"

"You don't know that," Frank reasoned. "You could sue for custody. Once they find out she robbed you of your parental rights . . ."

"No," Gary sighed. He fumbled at the bed controls until he had finally raised his head enough to look Frank in the eye. His right hand was still a little stiff, and very sore. "He's safer with his mother. Think about it. Marley knows who I am and where to find me. I can't exactly go into 'witness protection' and be able to . . . to do wh-what I do. I-if he found out about . . . him, then he'd have one more way to hurt me. I can't risk that, not with my . . . my only child."

Frank nodded thoughtfully, seeing Gary's point. Marley had already proven himself a ruthless, dangerous, opponent. He would not hesitate to abduct the boy and use him to torment Gary. 

"How do you handle it?" Gary asked solemnly. "Not being able to see your son grow up. Were you there when he was born? When he took his first step? Spoke his first words? Cut his first tooth? Did you wake up in the middle of the night to show him there were no monsters under the bed? To rock him to sleep when he had a nightmare? D-did you get to hold him when he cried? T-to tell him . . . tell him how much you love him?" He paused to wipe something from his eye.

"Yes," Frank sighed. "To all of the above. He was three when his mother and I divorced. And I still get to see him, once in a while. It's hard, sometimes. On all of us. I know that he's better off where he is. That doesn't make it any easier, but it helps me sleep at night." He looked away, shaking his head sadly. "To think that, no matter what, I'd never see him again . . . I don't know that I could handle that. Scratch that. I *know* I couldn't." He pushed himself to his feet and began pacing the tiny room. "My first assignment . . . I'd just been recruited, gone through the training regimen from Hell, and I was watching a game on TV. I-I was watching when they broke in with a . . . a special bulletin. Terrorists had released nerve gas, an attack on the Capitol. It also killed . . . it killed everyone in a nearby preschool. The cameras got in real close on . . . on one of the kids. It was Jimmy. My son." He paused to compose himself. "I freaked," he went on with a strained chuckle. "I mean, I *royally* freaked. Trashed the rec-room, assaulted my guards. They had to sedate me. I thought I was headed back to Hansen Island, for sure, and I didn't care."

"They sent you back, though," Gary murmured, his eyes full of sympathy for the pain Parker must have endured. "Because it was the Capitol, and a lot of powerful men were involved, they sent you back to stop it."

"Yeah," Parker nodded. "They did. I was able to save my son, and all those other kids. To me, the politicians were just a bonus. The kids were what mattered. *All* that mattered. So, yeah, I can see why you'd sacrifice being able to see your son in order to keep him safe. But, it's gotta hurt, man. It's gotta be cuttin' the heart right out of you."

"Getting shot hurt a lot less," Gary admitted ruefully. "I just don't see any other choice. Do you? I don't get 'do overs.' Advanced warning, sometimes. But one shot is all I have to stop things."

"I wish I had some answers for you, pal," Frank sighed. "But, if it helps, I think you chose the best course of action. For the boy's sake, at least."

"Speaking of which," Gary murmured nervously, "have you heard anymore a-about . . . about *Marley?"* Just saying the name sent a chill up his spine, and left a sour taste in his mouth.

Frank shook his head with a disgusted sigh. "We've got APBs out on him," he reported, "and his surviving henchmen. Starting with the D.C. area and expanding outward. His face has been plastered all over the media as the man who tried to assassinate Vice President Hoyne. Which boosted his and Bartlett's position in the polls dramatically, by the way. Marley is now being hunted by the FBI, the NSA, the NTSB, and the CIA. Hell, practically the entire alphabet! The only one not looking for him is a dogcatcher in Sheboygan. But he's promised to keep his eyes open."

"He's still in the area, I'm sure of it," Gary said with conviction. "He's not finished with me, yet."

"I'm afraid not," Frank admitted. He leaned both hands on the foot of the bed. "Let us take you back with us, Gary. We can protect you, and help you develop whatever . . . gift you have that lets you predict the future. We can have you under wraps so fast, Marley will think the earth opened up and swallowed you!"

"And your committee can decide who lives and who dies," Gary countered. "Thanks, Parker, but no thanks. I told you, I can't play that game."

"And what kind of game can you play when you're dead," Frank shot back. "I have to tell you," he added before Gary could respond, "that you impressed the hell outta me in that other timeline. You staggered into that train station on one good leg, *literally* more dead than alive, and the only thing you asked for was help in stopping those trains. You *knew* you were dying, that you didn't have a snowball's chance in Hell of surviving. Yet you all but crawled from wherever it was that those bastards dropped you off, probably still intending to stop them yourself if you had to. If you'd had the time. But you didn't. Marley had it timed to the minute. Hell! To the second! He wanted you there, to see it happen. That sadistic son of a b----!" he finished angrily, slamming his hand on the desk for emphasis.

Flinching at the heat in Parker's voice, Gary was trying to think of a suitable reply, when he heard his dad's voice as the others returned. Bernie, of course, was leading the way. Vocally, at least.

There was a tentative knock on the door as Craig pushed it open a crack.

"Is it safe to come in?" he asked.

"All clear," Frank chuckled, shifting his mood so rapidly it made Gary's head spin. Maybe Parker *was* a little crazy! "We were just wrapping up the touchy stuff." He gingerly shook Gary's hand as the others trouped in. "It's been great getting to know you, Hobson. Maybe we'll run into each other again, sometime."

"Under better circumstances, I hope," Gary replied with a strained smile. 

"If you guys ever get back to Chicago," Bernie said, "look us up. We just got this great house in Lockport. Looks just like our old one in Hickory!"

"Not exactly," Lois sighed, shooting Bernie a harried look, "but pretty close. It won't take much to make it just like home." She crossed over to Gary's bedside, one hand automatically going up to brush a lock of hair from his forehead. "Is your fever coming back?" she murmured. "You look a little flushed."

"I'm fine, Mom," Gary sighed. "Really." He couldn't suppress a tired grin, though, as she fussed about, fluffing his pillow and running a comb through his hair. "I can still hold a comb, Mom! Sorta," he added ruefully as he tried, and failed, to snatch the comb from her hand. While the swelling had gone down dramatically, his fingers were still stiff and clumsy. They wouldn't close enough to grasp it. He managed not to say, aloud, the various descriptive terms that suited Marley best. "Does this mean you're gonna have to feed me again?" he grumbled.

"Probably," Lois chuckled. "At least you *will* get to eat this morning. Well, clear liquids, anyway. They think your stomach may still be a little touchy. You were *so* sick, yesterday, hon!"

"I know," he groaned. *"Believe me,* I know. What about water? Any chance of my actually getting something wet, instead of those 'pop' thingies?" He waved at the two men headed out the door. "Take care, guys," Gary told them. "Drop by anytime. First round's on me."

The two agents flashed him a smile and a wave as they continued out the door. As they continued down the hall, Frank was sure he heard Bernie make some off-color remark about Gary's recent 'indisposition.'

"Poor guy," Craig chuckled. "Can you imagine having parents like that?"

"No," Frank sighed. "I can't." 'But I'd like to,' he told himself. 'I'd really like to.'

***********

After his parents left later that evening, two police officers came by to talk with Gary. They apologized for the intrusion, then told him that they were stationing a guard outside his room.

"You think he's still in the area," Gary murmured. "M-Marley, I mean. Do you really think he'd try something here? W-with all this security?"

"It's a strong possibility," the detective, a Lt. Singleton admitted. "From what you told us last night, this guy isn't wrapped too tight. He just *might* be crazy enough to come after you here."

"Marley isn't crazy," Gary quickly corrected him. "He's ruthless, heartless, and totally without anything resembling compassion, but he's not crazy. And, yeah, he'll come after me. Here, in Chicago, wherever. I don't think he likes leaving unfinished business behind."

The two detectives exchanged troubled glances as Singleton pulled up a chair. The other man, a Detective Roberts, leaned against the table by the door.

"We hear that you've been invited to dinner at the White House as soon as you're released," the lieutenant commented. "I don't suppose you've considered staying there until you're fully recovered. If you think about it, it's one of the most secure places in the country."

"And you'd be well looked after, medically," Roberts added. "You and your parents would be treated like visiting royalty."

"Which would be great for *them,"* Gary smiled, "but would drive me nuts. I'll think about it. I can't hide out there forever, though. What happens when I have to go home? You guys can't protect me around the clock."

"That's . . . something you need to talk over with President Bartlett," Singleton replied hesitantly. "I think he was discussing something along those lines with the head of his security detail."

Gary sank back into his pillows with a sigh of frustration. That was most *definitely* out of the question! How could he take care of the Paper with an armed guard breathing down his neck?

"In the meantime," Singleton continued, "there'll be a man outside your door until you're safely back in Chicago. After that, whatever details you work out are between you and the Secret Service. But I have to encourage you to take on *some* kind of protection. This Marley guy is a loose cannon. There's no telling what he'll do."

'Amen to that,' Gary mused as the two officers took their leave. 'All the more reason to keep Geran a secret. Even from my parents.'

*************

Gary wasn't sure what time it was when something, some subtle sound, woke him up. He was reaching groggily for the pull-cord to switch on the lights, when something was pressed against his face! Strong hands were holding a pillow over his face, suffocating him! Frantically, Gary tried pushing the hands away, to no avail. He was still too weak from his injuries. He tried to kick out, push himself from the bed, but someone was holding his legs! Fumbling for the bed controls, he pressed every button he could find, praying that one was the nurses call button! Oh, God! He needed air! Struggling against those powerful hands, Gary managed to dig his fingernails into one wrist, eliciting a muted curse, before his hand was roughly pushed away. The pressure eased slightly at that moment, and Gary used the respite to turn his head and suck in a huge lungful of precious, life sustaining air!

*"Help!"* he screamed, as loudly as he could! *"Help me-agh!"*

A fist had been driven into his wounded shoulder, taking his breath away, then the hands were around his throat! Gary beat at those powerful arms with his one good hand, as a gray haze encroached at the edge of his vision! He tried vainly to draw air past the painful constriction as his larynx was slowly being crushed! 

The last thing Gary remembered, as he passed out, was the crash of a door being slammed open, and the echoing reverberation of gunfire.

***********


	4. Mr.Hobson Goes To Washington

Tuesday February 26, The White House - 1430 hrs

Gary had dim recollections of waking to find a tube in his throat, and hearing voices murmuring somewhere close by. That episode had been very brief, thankfully, as it was also accompanied by incredible pain in his shoulder and throat.

He had awakened to a sense of movement sometime later. Gary had been groggily aware of being loaded into some kind of van. An ambulance, maybe? He wasn't sure at the time. His world was still consumed by pain. Gary must have communicated this to someone, because he soon felt an all too familiar warmth as consciousness faded once more. His next moment of awareness came as he was transferred to a much softer bed.

It was so hard to breathe! That was the first thing that Gary was aware of as he swam his way back to consciousness once more. His throat hurt terribly, and his breath rasped painfully through his swollen larynx. He stifled a groan, as the pain escalated rapidly with even that slight movement.

"Ah, you're awake."

Blinking rapidly, Gary gingerly turned his head toward the sound of that familiar, throaty voice. He was surprised to find himself in a much different bed than he had passed out in. The all too familiar IV pump still stood nearby, as well as the machine that monitored his vital signs. But he was now in a king-sized four-poster bed, and the monitor sat on an ornately carved nightstand. He was also in a much more opulent room than before. Sitting in a brocaded wingback chair was a woman who appeared to be in her late forties, perhaps older, but still quite lovely. She had thick, dark red hair, and a pleasant, if detached, smile.

"M-Mrs. B-Bartlett?" Gary rasped hoarsely. Puzzled, he looked beyond her, trying to figure out just exactly where he was. 

"You're in one of the many unused rooms of the Residence," Abigail Bartlett told him. "How do you feel?"

Gary rubbed his throat gingerly. "Hurts," he admitted. "Wh-why . . .?"

"Why did those maniacs try to kill you?" she shrugged. "I'm afraid you know more about that than I do, although it might have something to do with fouling up their plans. Why are you here? Easy. One of the bastards got away. One pulled a gun on your guard, shots were exchanged, he 

died, the strangler that is, and the other dove out your window. Some bushes broke his fall and he left a bloody trail out to the parking lot. Too bad he didn't break his neck," she grumbled, her head bent to look over the chart in her hand. "They really worked you over, didn't they?"

"Um, yeah," Gary mumbled. "S-so . . . why'm I *here?"*

Abigail Bartlett raised her head to give him a puzzled look to match his own. Then her eyes widened, and her mouth opened in an 'O' of understanding as she perceived his bewilderment. 

"Oh! Why are you . . .*here?"* she repeated, one manicured finger pointed at the floor. "Well, you *did* save the lives of the Vice President, his family, the Speaker of the House, several cabinet members, half of the White House Press Corps, as well as the Secret Service agents and train crew. Not to mention all the people aboard that express. Don't you think it would be just a bit . . . well, churlish of us to leave you and your parents out in the cold, so to speak? We had you moved here as soon as you were stabilized." She stood and stepped up to the bed, taking a seat on the edge. "They had to do some repair work on your shoulder and you've been pretty much out of it for the last few hours." Leaning in close enough that Gary could smell her perfume, she pulled out a penlight and flashed it into one of Gary's eyes, then the other. "Pupils are equal and reactive," she noted as he blinked to clear his vision. "I think you're going to be fine."

"A-are you . . . m-my doctor . . . now?" Gary asked. His voice was harsh and raspy, little more than a whispering croak.

"No," Mrs. Bartlett chuckled. "I'm just noting my observations for when your doctor gets here. I gave up my license for the duration of Jed's presidency. That doesn't mean I can't keep notes."

"M-my folks . . . okay?" Gary asked, his brows knit in an expression of concern. "N-not . . . not hurt or . . . or worried . . . 'bout me?"

Abby laughed at this, a warm throaty laugh to match her voice. "Jed warned me about that. He said your mother said you'd be asking about someone before the first ten minutes were up. She told Jed we could bank on it. Yes, they're both fine. We sent someone to pick them up while you were being transferred." She gave Gary a speculative look. "They say your mother was already wide awake. Said she had a dream you were in trouble. Has that happened before?"

"C-couple times," Gary replied with a slow nod. Any motion sent shafts of pain shooting through his whole body. Was there anything left that didn't hurt? "Y-you said . . . one d-died. Wh-who?"

"Not this Marley character you've been mumbling about, I'm afraid," she sighed. "From the description your guard gave, he wasn't the one who escaped, either. So," she added brightly, patting his good shoulder, "do you feel up to company? Your parents are worried sick about you."

"S-sure," Gary smiled wanly. He was pretty sure neither of his parents would rest until they had assured themselves he was okay. And, truthfully, he wanted the same assurances in regards to them. With another gentle pat, the First Lady rose and crossed the huge room, it was bigger than his loft, and opened the door. She spoke to someone standing just outside, then resumed her original seat.

"We, your doctor and I, have been going over your medical records," she mused, picking up a rather weighty folder. "You've had a rough time of it these last few years, haven't you? I don't think I've ever seen a file this thick on someone so young who wasn't dying. Which, thank God, you don't seem to be. Not of any *natural* causes, anyway."

Gary was saved from having to respond to this dry statement by a knock on the door. A young black man stuck his head into the room.

"The Hobson's are here," he murmured softly. "And the President would like to know if you'll be having dinner with him, or should he go ahead without you?"

"Show them in, Charlie," Abigail told the President's Aide. "And tell my husband I'll be down in a few minutes." She stood to greet the Hobsons as they practically ran into the grandly appointed room. "Mr. and Mrs. Hobson. It's so nice to finally meet you," she said, flashing them a warm smile. 

"Oh, my," Lois gushed, her cheeks reddening as she took the First Lady's hand. "I'm honored! This is all . . . Oh, my!"

"I think she means it's a pleasure to meet you, too, ma'am," Bernie grinned, as he also shook hands. "How's our boy doing?"

"Just fine," Abigail Bartlett replied with a throaty chuckle. She indicated the figure on the bed. "He's been asking about you. If you'll excuse me, my husband is waiting dinner on me, and I'm sure the three of you have much to talk about. If you're free for lunch tomorrow, perhaps you'll join me and we can chat." As she gathered Gary's records, the First Lady flashed Gary an impish smile. "Behave yourself, Mr. Hobson," she said. "Your doctor should be in to check on you within the hour. In the meantime, we'll try to keep visitors to a minimum. Good day."

"Yes, ma'am," Gary murmured hoarsely. "And . . . thank you."

The door had barely closed after the First Lady before Lois was brushing a lock of hair from Gary's forehead and checking for a fever.

"Oh, Gary," she sighed, after assuring herself that he really was safe and alive, "I had this terrible dream! You were being buried alive, and you were trying to scream, but no sound was coming out! And you couldn't move! It was . . .!"

"J-just a d-dream," Gary rasped haltingly. "'M okay. H-hurts . . . t' talk, though."

Bernie put a finger under his son's chin and tilted it up a little, emitting a shrill whistle of surprise as he saw the livid bruising around Gary's throat. They very clearly showed the imprints of a thumb and four fingers on each side.

"Those guys really did a number on you, Kiddo!" he exclaimed softly. "No wonder you can't talk! *So,* you just lie back and listen. Let *us* do the talking."

For the next hour, Gary lay helplessly as his parents expounded vociferously on the excitement of meeting so many powerful people in the government, of being the *absolute* center of attention because their only son was *such* a hero, of how beautiful the White House was, and wouldn't all those people who had 'said all those *terrible things* about you just *die!'*

Gary held his hand up at this last statement, finally halting their exuberant babbling. He cleared his throat painfully a couple of times before he could get the words out.

"D-don't," he stammered, his voice harsh and raspy. "D-don't . . . need t' tell . . . anyone. Please?"

"I don't see how we can hide it forever, hon," Lois reasoned. "There's already been so much publicity, and it's only a matter of time before someone connects you to what happened. Especially after you were whisked to the White House in the middle of the night. Face it, sweetie. You're now, officially, a hero."

*************

Thursday February 28, The White House - 1200 hrs

Gary had been confined to bed for another day before the doctor would allow him to try something close to solid foods. He was also allowed to walk, with assistance, as far as the bathroom and back. Which was as far as Gary's trembling legs would take him. Still, it was a relief not to have to call someone in to help him with a bedpan! The activity, limited as it was, went a long way to restoring his sense of dignity. 

He sank back on the bed with a sigh, his back propped up against the headboard, as his mother set the serving tray across his lap. Gary looked down at an assortment of pureed and blended foods with a grimace. He had to admit, though, that he still had some difficulty swallowing, and that the dressing was probably the closest he would get to solid food for a while. At least it was better than the broth and gelatin he'd been restricted to for the last couple of days.

"I'm sorry this has messed up your plans," he told his mom as she prepared to spoon a bite of something that had once been turkey into his mouth. He had tried to convince her he could feed himself, now. The swelling was completely gone from both hands, although he still couldn't use his left. She had listened politely . . . as she continued to feed him. "Did you have to . . . to reschedule your party?" He still had a little trouble with his voice. His dad said he sounded like he had swallowed Kermit the Frog.

"Don't worry about it, honey," Lois told him. "We were able to get in touch with everyone, including your paramedic friends, and let them know it had been set back a week. We should be home by then, I'm sure. My, this *smells* good, at least," she commented as she dipped up a spoonful of what she thought might be green beans. The look on her face said she had her doubts. "The important thing is to get you back on your feet. And to catch the man who did this to you. Has anyone said anything? Do they think he's . . . he's still in this area?" she asked nervously.

"No one's, umph." He had to take a moment to swallow before he could continue. "Mom, how can you expect me to answer if you keep shoving that spoon in my mouth? No. No one has said anything, but I don't . . . I don't think Marley's in this area anymore. There're too many people looking for him. He was probably long gone before those guys snuck into my room. I-I think that was just a diversion, to make the police *think* he's still hanging around somewhere."

"You could be right," Bernie said from his seat by the French doors. He was reading a copy of the Washington Post. As soon as he had learned Gary was acquainted with one of the reporters, Bernie had decided to get to know her through her writing. Since Gary had pleaded with them not to find her and 'dredge up painful memories,' he figured it was the only way he had of finding out what had pushed them apart. "It says here that he's been spotted in six different states. Including Alaska. Face it, that bozo could be anywhere."

Gary was saved from having to answer by a knock on the door. That was one thing he had yet to get used to. Everyone treated him and his parents as if they really *were* visiting royalty. No one simply barged in. *Everyone* knocked. Except the President. He had someone else knock for him.

Sam Seaborn, Deputy Communications Director to the President, stuck his head around the edge of the door at Bernie's invitation.

"Ah! Good! You're awake," he said in his clipped, energetic tones. Sam quickly stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "The President has asked me to see if you're ready to make a statement to the Press, yet. Or, if you like, we could construct a statement for you."

"I don't think I understand," Gary murmured, fending off another spoonful of . . . something yellow. "Y-you'll 'construct' a statement *for* me? You make it sound like building a house. Mom, please!"

"You *have* to get your strength back, sweetie," Lois gently scolded him. "To do that, you need to eat."

"This isn't eating," Gary croaked miserably. "You could just give me a straw and let me drink it. C-couldn't I just have something *cold* to drink? One of those diet supplements or something?" He gave Sam a pleading look. "This looks awful!"

"I'll see what we can find," Sam chuckled, seeming a little more at ease. That was one thing Gary had noticed about the smaller man, the few times they had met. He always started a conversation as if he were in a hurry. Sometimes he held that level of energy until the business was concluded. Sometimes, when things were of a less political nature, he would seem to relax. But there was always an . . . undercurrent was the best he could describe it. A hidden well-spring of energy just waiting to be tapped. "About that statement . . ."

"I don't know," Gary sighed, running his good hand through his hair nervously. "I-I don't think I did anything that anyone else wouldn't have done, u-under the circumstances. I-I was just . . . i-in the right p-place at the r-right time." He was secretly thankful that no one had noticed that he had a copy of the Sun-Times every morning. The cat had been very discreet. So had his parents.

"Mr. Hobson," Sam sighed, "what you did was extraordinary. You could've been killed! The dispatcher stated that you barely got out of the way in time. One second more and we could . . ." He paused, seeming to realize that Gary's parents were hanging on his every word. "Um, *anyway,* we need to give the Press some type of statement or they'll never leave you alone."

Gary let his head drop back with a sigh. "I just didn't want another September 11th," he murmured wearily. "Why does it have to be such a big thing to *prevent* a disaster? You'd think anyone with a heart would want to stop something like that."

"Some of us just have more 'heart' than others," Sam replied, speaking softly. He stepped closer to the bed, his hands busily fussing with a notepad. "We, all of us in the President's staff, can't thank you enough for what you did. John Hoyne is a good man, with the country's best interests in mind, even when he makes an unpopular decision. If something, God forbid, should happen to the President during his term, then I kind of like the idea that he'll be the one taking up the reins of government."

"Me, too," Bernie nodded sagely. "I heard a rumor that they wouldn't let that 'Internet Education' bill pass until he took his name off of it. That had to cost him, clout-wise."

"It did," Sam admitted. "It means we can't use it as a campaign issue, but the bill passed. To him, that was the important thing. He and President Bartlett really care about this country *and* its citizens. It's not a 'power thing.' They *honestly* care."

"You don't have to convince us, hon," Lois said with a light-hearted chuckle. "We voted for them the last time. Remember? *We* take this country's best interests to heart, too. Now, can you help me convince my hard-headed son that he needs to eat? I know it *looks* like goop, but he *needs nourishment!"*

**********

Gary closed his eyes and turned his head, trying not to wince, as the IV catheter was slowly withdrawn from his right forearm. It always gave him a creepy feeling to have things pulled out of his flesh. 

"There you go," the nurse murmured as she taped a thick piece of gauze over the tiny wound. She was a matronly, middle-aged woman with a pleasant, professional demeanor. Her name was Veda. "Now, lean up a bit and let's get that pajama top off. I need to change your bandages."

Reluctantly, Gary allowed her to remove the garment, exposing the yards of gauze that swathed much of his chest. He sat still as she unwound the bandages, removing the loose padding that covered each of his lesser injuries. She was unable to stifle a wince, herself, at the number of small cuts and burns she exposed. The blisters on his back seemed especially deep.

"These all seem to be healing well," she reported as she cleaned a thin crust of blood from a row of stitches. "Are they giving you any problems? Pain or itching, I mean."

"A-a little," Gary admitted. "Not much, though. The Toradol takes care of most of it."

"Good," Veda murmured. "If you need anything stronger, don't hesitate to ask." She finished cleaning the neat rows of stitches, keeping up a light hearted dialogue as she applied antibiotic ointment and burn cream, then covered each of them with new gauze. "Now, let's see that shoulder. Oh, my!" she exclaimed softly, as she peeled away the thick pad. "Don't tell me *that* doesn't hurt! Can you feel your hand and arm, yet?"

"Oh-ho-ho, yes!" Gary chuckled grimly. "Throbs like a son of a . . . Um, I have plenty of feeling, thank you. I just can't seem to move it, yet. Is it too soon, do ya think?"

"It's only been a few days since you were shot," Veda nodded with clinical detachment. "Give it a little more time. From the looks of things, you've been this route before, so you pretty much know what to expect. What about your hand? Can you move your fingers?"

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Gary slowly wiggled his fingers by way of answer. Even that slight movement caused a fine sheen of sweat to break out across his forehead. God! It hurt!

"Th-that's the best I can do," he gasped as he let the hand relax back into his lap. "I d-don't . . . don't remember having this much trouble . . . before."

"You may still have some swelling in there," she mused, carefully cleaning the wound. "Those . . . people . . . reopened the wound when they struck you. The surgeons had to repair the vein again and drained a large hematoma. That set you back to square one. There! All nice and clean. I'm going to leave this uncovered for the moment so the doctor can take a look. He's waiting right outside." She stood and walked to the door.

"He didn't want to see the rest of 'em?" Gary asked, his expressive eyes showing his confusion. "Th-the cuts and burns?"

"Those are painful," Veda told him with a detached smile, "but hardly serious unless they become infected. His concern is with the gunshot wound to your shoulder. He also wants to see that crease over your right ear, which is why I left that uncovered, as well." She opened the door and leaned out, gesturing to someone.

A stout, gray haired man followed her back into the room. He was the same doctor that Gary had seen several times in the hospital, and that very room, since he had first awakened. 

"And how are you feeling today, Mr. Hobson?" Dr. Michaels asked as he perched on the edge of the huge bed. None of that royal 'we' stuff with this guy. He always got straight to the point.

"Not too bad," Gary replied with a noncommittal nod. He had finally learned not to shrug. "It hurts, but nothing the Toradol can't handle."

Dr. Michaels gave a dry chuckle as he examined the shoulder first. "You must see yourself as one tough customer," he commented. 

Gary drew back with a look of startled amusement. "Me?" he snorted. "I'm a wimp! Ask her! I couldn't even look when she took the needle out! I'm about as tough as marshmallows."

"Then why do you keep refusing something stronger for the pain?" the physician asked pointedly. "Your mother has said you've been having trouble sleeping and that you can't seem to rest. If you need morphine . . ."

"No!" Gary snapped, his eyes widening in an expression of near panic. "No morphine, no Demerol, no narcotics of any kind. Don't . . ." He paused a moment to get his voice, and his emotions, under better control. "Please don't *ever* tell my parents any of this, but the hospital overdid the morphine when I had an accident a couple of years ago. A-at least they did in my opinion. I know they just didn't want me to be in any pain, but they had me so doped up I couldn't *think!* S-so, as soon as I could string two thoughts together, I told them not to give me anymore. By that time, I was already pretty dependent on the stuff and, well, it wasn't easy, but I got through it. A few months later, I was sh-shot for the first time and suffered some m-major trauma to my left wrist. *Again* with the morphine. Kicking it wasn't any easier the second time around, believe me. I know that your only concern right now is whether or not I'm suffering. I'm not gonna lie, it hurts like hell most of the time. But not as bad as going through withdrawal. So, please, don't bring it up again. I'd almost rather lose the arm than go through that a third time."

Dr. Michaels looked at the lines of pain around his patient's eyes, the determined set of his jaw, and knew he meant what he'd said. His own eyes softened in understanding as he considered the pain this man had put himself through in order to lead something close to a normal life.

"Very well," the doctor nodded as he returned to his examination. "We'll stick to the Toradol for a while, and I'll see what else we can give you to help you sleep. Something mild. Now, let me look at that hard head of yours. Um-hmm. That's healing nicely. We should be able to remove those stitches by some time tomorrow. You're a very lucky man, Mr. Hobson. Less than an inch separated you from an early grave."

"Not the first time *that's* happened," Gary sighed. He turned his head to show them a hairline scar behind that same ear, just above the base of his skull. "You know, I *really* don't like guns."

**************

Friday March 01, The White House - 0230 hrs

The White House never really seemed to sleep, in Gary's opinion. Even as isolated as he was in the central part of the Residence, he could sense the ceaseless activity in the West Wing of the White House. Sam had confided that, on many occasions, the President's staff would go for weeks with just an hour or two of sleep a night. That was one of the things that made it so hard for him to sleep. Back home, even though the streets were never truly empty, there was usually quiet within his own space. Here . . . there was always a sense of . . . others.

'Mr. Hobson.'

Not all of those . . . others . . . were among the living.

'Mr. Hobson.'

Gary tried to find a comfortable position which, considering the nature and variety of his injuries, wasn't easy. Lying flat on his back was fine, as soon as the pain subsided. Any movement, though, aggravated the burns and made the rows of stitches itch like crazy. Rolling onto his right side brought similar discomfort, and the left was out of the question. 

'Mr. Hobson. Gary.'

Then there were his nightly visitors. They had started showing up that first night after he had awakened in the ornate bedroom. At first, he had thought it was a dream. When he'd realized what was actually going on, he was too weak and tired to be frightened. He found that he was really more annoyed than anything. Why couldn't they just let him sleep? Two of them he could actually see, after a fashion. Shimmering specters, more light than substance. So long as they manifested themselves *outside* of his skull, Gary found that he could handle their august presences. It was the others, the ones he could *feel,* but not *see,* that bothered him. The ones whose presences were always just on the edge of his awareness. It was like having a cocktail party constantly going on inside his head. It was something he had been afraid to discuss with anyone else, for fear that they would think he had been 'unhinged' by his recent experiences.

'Please, Gary. We must speak.'

He was beginning to think they might be right. Oh, God! How he wished Peter were there to counsel him. He wondered how much experience the Shaolin had had with the residents of the hereafter.

'Gary.'

"Go *away,"* Gary groaned. "I'm trying to sleep!"

'It's important, Gary,' the deep, hollow voice intoned. The voice had a deep timber with what sounded like a mid-western accent. 'Please, believe me. I would not disturb your rest if what I had to say was not of grave consequence.'

With a sigh of frustration, Gary struggled to sit up. Each movement cost him in renewed pain. 'If this keeps up,' he thought to himself, 'I may have to re-evaluate my stand on drugs.' 

"Okay," Gary sighed, as he propped his back up against the headboard. "I'm awake. What can I do for you, Mr. President?"

'Please,' the hollow voice chuckled. 'Call me Abe. Or Mr. Lincoln, if you must be so formal.'

"Mr. Lincoln, then," Gary acceded. "Now, what's so important that you had to . . . well, y-you know."

'This is awkward for you, I know,' the former President conceded. 'But, of all the visitors who have seen me, you have been the only one who could also hear me so clearly. You must return home soon. The Paper cannot protect you here. Marley has confederates everywhere. Even within this august edifice. Do not let the Secret Service relax their guard upon you. Use my name, if you think you will be believed, but get them to post a guard within your room.'

"No offense, sir," Gary sighed, "but I don't think that telling the President of the United States that a *former* President, who has since passed away, is worried about my health comes under the heading of 'Good Ideas.' I'm *really* not ready for the 'rubber room.' Not yet, anyway."

'We are talking about more than just your health, Gary,' President Lincoln gently chided him. 'There are forces after your very soul, not to mention, your life. Precautions must be taken to protect both.'

Gary wiped his good hand over his face in a weary gesture, sighing as he wondered if there were not some 'precautions' he could take to protect his sanity.

"I-I'll . . . I'll talk to him tomorrow," he promised. "Do you have any, well, *personal* messages you'd like passed on?"

'Yes,' said another voice in a distinctly New England accent. 'Tell him that Jack Kennedy is proud that another hard-headed New Englander is at the helm. And tell Josh Lymon that he's blind if he doesn't realize that his assistant, Donna, is in love with him.'

"Whoa!" Gary protested, sitting straight up with a pained hiss. "You can't expect me to say something like that! Th-they'll know I'm crazy!"

'Then tell Sam Seaborn how pleased I am that he forgave his father,' the specter of John Kennedy amended. 'He's not the first man to find fulfillment outside of his marriage vows. If anyone should know that, I would.' 

"Oh, this just *keeps* getting better," Gary moaned, ignoring the pain as he slid under the covers. "Never mind Marley. Josh and Sam are gonna kill me."

***********

Lois Hobson eased into her son's room to find him stirring fitfully in his sleep. Quietly, she stepped up to the side of his bed and peered down at his pale features with open concern. Dark smudges under his eyes told of another restless night. With the covers pulled up to his chin, he looked so young and vulnerable. The only visible sign of injury was the strip of gauze encircling his head, contrasting sharply with his thick, dark hair.

Wordlessly, she lowered herself to a seat on the edge of the four-poster bed. The movement brought a murmur of protest from Gary, but failed to awaken him. When Lois brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, however, his eyes flickered open for a moment.

"Hi, sweetie," she crooned. "How're you feeling this morning?"

"Tired," he admitted, his voice hardly louder then a whisper. "Couldn't sleep last night."

"Do you need something stronger for the pain?" she asked in concern. "Is that why you can't sleep?"

"Partly," was Gary's raspy reply. "Too many ghosts here."

"I beg your pardon?" Lois asked, not sure she had heard him right. "Did you say 'ghosts?' As in 'things that go bump in the night?' That kind of ghosts?"

Gary nodded sleepily, his eyes drifting shut. "Um-hmm," he murmured. "This place is full of 'em. They talk all night long."

Openly worried, now, Lois put a hand to Gary's forehead. He didn't *look* feverish, but she thought he felt a little too warm. Could he have picked up an infection, she wondered?

"I'm not sick, Mom," Gary sighed, not bothering to open his eyes. It was just too much effort. He haltingly explained about the nightly visitations from the two illustrious specters. "They're worried 'bout me," he added drowsily. "Some o' the others are, too. Can't see 'em, though. Lord, if they'd just let me sleep!"

Lois tenderly caressed her son's cheek as she considered what might be happening. Either Gary was hallucinating, or he was indeed able to see and hear the ghosts that were reported to be roaming the historic Residence. Just two years ago, she would have been sure of the former. Recently, however, Gary had been inundated by forces beyond his control. Sometimes those forces had names. Like poor Tony Greco, or the tragic spirits of their own ancestors, Gary and Amanda Chandler. All had used, or maneuvered Gary to their own ends. True, their intentions had been good, even honorable. But Gary had suffered horribly, nonetheless.

"Are any of them here, now?" she asked, unable to keep the worry from her voice. "Can you see, o-or hear them?"

"Unh-uh," Gary replied sleepily. "Only come out . . . after midnight. They le' me 'lone 'n daytime." He stirred fitfully, nuzzling his face against the warmth of her palm. "Nice," he murmured. "Soft. Love you, Mom." He was asleep once more.

Lois decided not to try and awaken him again. At that moment, she figured he needed rest a lot more than he needed food. She would just tell everyone that he'd had a restless night, which was true, and shouldn't be disturbed until lunchtime. 

She sat there a moment longer, watching him sleep. What he had said worried her. If he was once more being used by . . . 'others' was the best term she could come up with, then he could be in for even more pain and suffering. Apparently, Gary had again come to the attention of forces none of them understood, but that he could sense in some way. It seemed unfair of them to seize upon him at a time when he was too weak to resist. But that seemed to be when he was the most accessible. 

Rising slowly, so as not to disturb him, Lois stood to go. As she crossed the spacious room she made up her mind to call Peter Cain. She had a feeling that something like this was more up *his* alley than Gary's.

As her hand reached for the door, Lois paused, looking around uncertainly. For just a second she had felt a chill, prickly sensation on the back of her neck. It left her feeling frightened and . . . unclean. With a shiver, she snatched open the door and practically fled the room. Yes, she was *definitely* going to call Peter!

The door clicked shut behind her. On the king-sized bed, Gary squirmed uncomfortably, moaning in his sleep. He mumbled incoherent words of protest as the dreams returned. Nightmares of an event that had taken place almost six years before mingled in with the torments of the past week. He struggled to wake up, but exhaustion kept him chained in a Morphean Hell.

Two voices, one male, one definitely female, filled the otherwise empty room with the sounds of cruel, humorless laughter.

***********

Gary finally dragged himself up from swirling shadows of Stygian darkness and barely glimpsed horrors when a firm hand gently shook his uninjured shoulder. His eyes fluttered open to see a blurred face hovering over him. Startled, he flinched back, squeezing his eyes shut as the motion sent an electric shock of pain throughout his body. He bit back a soft moan as he once more opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to bring things into sharper focus.

"Hi, Doc," he finally murmured. Now that he was, for the most part, awake, Gary could see that the doctor was not alone. Next to him, trying not to look as anxious as they felt, were the President, his parents, and a man that he had yet to meet, but who looked strangely familiar. Gary's brow knit into a puzzled frown as he tried to place this new face. 

"You look terrible," the doctor commented without preamble. "Aren't you getting any rest at all?"

"Some," Gary admitted. "Not much. Can't seem to sleep at night."

"And not very well during the day, either, it appears," Dr. Michaels observed. "I think we need to change your medication. You've already been on the Toradol longer than recommended. Any longer and we take a serious risk of ulcers. I know your objections to morphine . . ."

"I won't take anything that might be addictive," Gary was quick to say. "Or that interferes with my ability to function."

"And how well are you functioning, now?" the irritated physician snapped. "There's a time-released morphine that you take every twelve hours in a pill form. It's slow to take effect, but it should afford you the rest you need. I'm only going to prescribe one per day, in your case. You'll get your first dose right after supper. It should take effect by bedtime. We can try a moderate dose of about 60mg to start with. If you do well on that, we'll maintain that for a couple of days, then start to reduce it gradually. Which is what your doctors should have done on those previous occasions. There will be no withdrawal symptoms, this time, if we do this right."

Stung, Gary shot his parents a startled glance. To his bewilderment, they showed no surprise at the doctor's bald statement.

"Did you think we hadn't noticed, kiddo?" Bernie shrugged, his eyes full of sympathy. "You were like a different person, a stranger, for almost two weeks. If you'd been able to get out of bed, you'd 've been climbin' the walls."

"And that was only after being on it a little over a week," Lois added, fighting back tears. "Let us help you this time, sweetie. We're not going to let you go through this alone."

"That shoulder is going to give you a lot of pain over the next few weeks," Dr. Michaels reminded him. "You're going to need some kind of relief in order for it to heal. Being stubborn is only going to extend the recovery period."

"Let the man help you," President Bartlett urged. He flashed Gary a sudden smile. "We might need the bed for a visiting dignitary."

Feeling trapped, Gary turned a pleading look on the scowling physician. "Isn't there *anything* else you can give me?"

"There're a *lot* of things I could give you," Dr. Michaels replied, his stern expression softening a little as he sensed victory. "Each of them just as addictive as the straight morphine. Or with even greater risk of side-effects. I'm not going to let you leave here a drug addict, Mr. Hobson. I can promise you that. My biggest fear right now is that, if you don't get some rest, you could be setting yourself up for some serious complications. Stress weakens the body's defenses. You could end up with a respiratory infection, staph, or any of a hundred minor ailments that could turn critical in your condition."

"You guys aren't playin' fair," Gary murmured dismally, "ganging up on me like this. L-like an 'intervention' in reverse. Y-you wanna make me *take* drugs, instead of . . . of giving them up." He turned his head away, trying unsuccessfully to hide the bitterness at what he saw as a betrayal. "Alright. I'll take the damned drugs. Happy?"

"Gary . . ." Lois murmured.

"I *said* I'll take the drugs," Gary repeated angrily, not looking at them. "Just don't expect me to be happy about it. The f-first dose is for after supper, right?"

"Yes," Dr. Michaels replied, suddenly uncertain of just how much of a victory he had won. "It needs to be taken in time for it to take effect by bedtime."

"Mind if I have a little time alone 'til then?" Gary asked. 'I'd like a little time to say good-bye to my mind,' he thought, but he wasn't bitter enough to say it out loud.

"O-of course, sweetie," Lois stammered, unable to conceal the pain his words, and his tone, had caused her. "We'll be back to have lunch w . . ."

"I'm not hungry," he quickly replied, cutting her off. Finally turning back to face them, he let his expression soften, not wanting to cause her any more pain, but unsure how to take back his harsh words. "P-please? I-I'm really not hungry. I just . . . just need to get my head straight, that's all." 'While I still can,' he added to himself.

"Harumph!" Everyone turned to face the President, who had been looking for a graceful exit from this painful scene. "Perhaps we should grant his request. Besides, you were going to show me a copy of that picture your son found." He stepped between Lois and Bernie, putting an arm around each of their shoulders as he guided them from the room. "You, too, Leo. Doctor. From what they describe, it's a marvelous picture, taken on the day President Lincoln was shot."

"I'll just be a minute, Mr. President," the one he had called Leo replied, as the others trouped out. The President turned his head to give Leo a questioning glance. "Just a couple of things need clearing up."

As soon as the door closed, Leo McGarry turned to face the man on the bed. Gary looked back at him with open curiosity, but no hostility at the intrusion. He simply looked defeated. Leo was genuinely sorry for what he was about to do, but he could not stand back and let this man be ruined by his own self-doubts.

"Quite a performance," Leo remarked as he lowered himself to a seat on the edge of the bed. "Are you always that rude or is this a special occasion?"

"I'm sorry about that," Gary murmured dismally. "I guess I was just feeling . . . L-look, you . . . Who the hell are you, anyway? Where do I know you from?"

"Sorry," Leo chuckled, holding out his hand. "Leo McGarry, White House Chief of Staff. I forgot that you were a little out of it when they brought you in."

"McGarry," Gary mused. "You had that press conference a coupla years ago. S-something about . . . time in rehab."

"Yes, I'm an alcoholic," Leo nodded. "So I know something of what you went through. And I know what you're afraid of. You're thinking, 'If I let them give me morphine, am I going to become an addict?' I got news for you, kid. You're already an addict. The first couple of times, you licked it on your own. You're afraid you won't be strong enough the next time. Or the next. You're afraid . . . "

"Period," Gary told him. "Which is nothing new," he continued acidly. "Over the last coupla years I've opened whole new chapters on fear I've never even considered before. I'm afraid for myself, my family, my country . . . hell, I'm almost afraid to open my front door some mornings! I'm afraid for the guy down the street that might get hit by a bus before I can pull him out of the way. Or the woman jogging in the park who doesn't know about the rapist hiding in the bushes. O-or the homeless guy . . . sleeping in a tool shed on . . . the roof of a building where I can't *stop a damned fire!* *I'm scared to death of -wanting- to lose control!"* Gary let his head fall back with a grimace as he realized that he was close to shouting. Tears rolled from the corners of his eyes as he fought back a pain that had nothing to do with his injuries. "Is that what you wanted to hear?" he asked in a strained voice. "Wh-why you needed to talk to me?"

"Partly," Leo admitted. "I also wanted you to know you aren't alone in this. That other people know, and can relate, to what you're going through. Talk to people, Gary. You have a therapist back home? Good," he continued after Gary's reluctant nod. "Let him know you need an appointment. What about a support group? No? Then I suggest you find one. Or start one. You should have meetings on a scheduled basis."

"I wish it were that easy," Gary murmured hoarsely. "There is so much . . . insanity . . . going on in my life. I can't even plan a dinner date. You have no idea how tempting it is t-to just . . . just wash my hands of everything and slink off with my tail between my legs. Blame it on booze, or drugs, or stress and just say 'I quit! Find yourself another patsy!' But I can't. Every time I'd hear a siren, or about someone getting hurt in an incident that I could've prevented . . . or that some kid disappeared, or was killed, or . . . I-I just can't walk away from that," he sniffed, the tears flowing freely, now. "I can't. I've tried and I can't."

It was now Leo's turn to be speechless. He had no idea what kind of forces ruled this young man's life, and he suddenly realized he didn't want to. So he did the only thing he *could* do. Leo gently lifted the injured man upright, injured in spirit as much as body, and let Gary Hobson lay his head on his shoulder. Hesitantly, Gary put his good arm around the other man, clinging to him for much needed support. In more ways than one.

For the next few minutes, they wept together.

"You tell anyone we did this," Leo quipped a moment later, "and I'll deny everything."

"Don't worry," Gary replied with a chuckling snort. "I still have my own 'macho image' to protect."

"Feel better?" Leo asked when he felt enough time had passed. Gary just nodded, too choked up to speak. Leo helped him lie back, careful of his various injuries. "Have you tried talking to your parents about any of this? Or just your dad? Sometimes, it helps to get it all out with another guy."

"I-I don't know," Gary murmured hesitantly. "Dad's a great guy. Th-the best dad you could ask for. B-but I don't know how much of this he'd understand. H-he thinks it's great that his son is considered, by some, to be a hero. He's never heard th-the 'flip side.' The cries of 'crackpot,' 'delusional,' and 'psychopath.' N-not until recently, anyway," he amended. "As for Mom . . . Lord, no!" he winced, his face reddening in embarrassment. "I can talk to her a-about a lot of things, but not this! I've scared the hell outta both of them so many times over the last coupla years . . . And Dad still looks at it as a-an adventure, sometimes. Almost a game. I try not to keep secrets from them, but . . . sometimes things happen that even *I* can't believe! How can I expect anyone else to? Even them."

"All the same," Leo advised him, "I think I'd give it a try, if I were you. Sometimes, the best support you can find is within your own family. Think about it," he added as he stood to go. "And get some rest. You look terrible."

"Maybe I'll do that," Gary nodded. His eyes already felt as heavy as lead. Then it hit him. "Now I remember. There was a reporter on the Sun-Times a few years ago. Howard Banner. He retired about four or five years ago. You two could be twins."

"We're not," Leo assured him with a dry chuckle. "But our mothers were. He's my cousin. That explains why your name seemed so familiar. He said some busybody named Gary Hobson kept him from ruining his life, and helped him make some very hard decisions. He retired with his reputation, and his honor intact, thanks to you. He's now lounging on the beach in Waikiki, writing a book."

"That's good," Gary murmured. He felt like he could rest, now. Maybe regain a little of the strength he always seemed to lose whenever he was 'visited.' "He's a good man. Tell my folks that I'm sorry I was such a jerk, and I may be feeling better by lunchtime. I-if they still wanna join me, that is."

"I have a feeling they might," Leo replied with a knowing smile. "Sleep well, Mr. Hobson."

*********

"Are you sure you can't come down, Peter?" Lois said into the phone. "Gary could really use a friend, right now. A friend wh-who can help him with . . . things."

"Let me guess," Peter sighed. "Would it be anything like what happened in Texas a few months ago?"

"Pretty close, I think," Lois admitted. "I'm sure you know the, um, the reputation of the place where we're staying now."

"Oh, yeah," the young Shaolin replied. "The *other* residents. Lois, you've gotta get him outta there. For a normal person, that may be the ultimate 'safe house.' Not for Gary. Each and every one of those . . . They're draining the life right out of him, Lois. Look, I can't come down for obvious reasons. Someone has to stay here and take care of business. What if I send a couple of pinch-hitters? I'm sure Jake would be willing to come, and I'm surprised we haven't heard anything from Polly. She usually keeps pretty close tabs on Gary."

"Check the hospital," Lois sighed. "Don't ask how I know, but I'm willing to bet that she had some kind of seizure or something last Saturday. She's probably out of her mind with worry, right now."

There was a moment of silence in which Lois could almost see Peter recalling the empathic link the stocky, middle-aged imaging technologist shared with Gary.

"Christ!" he murmured. "I forgot all about that. It may take me a few hours to spring her, but she'll be there by tomorrow morning, I promise."

"Thank you, Peter," Lois sighed gratefully. "I'll make sure they have no problems getting in to see Gary. Oh! I almost forgot! There's a therapist, or psychiatrist Gary goes to see once a month. Dr. William Griner. Could you drop by his office and see if he's willing to come down here for a few days?"

"Sure thing," Peter replied. "Do you have his number?" Lois quickly gave him the information from a card she found in Gary's wallet. "Good. I'll call him as soon as I hang up. How's Gary holding up?"

"Not good," she informed him. "He looks as if he hasn't slept in a week. And it almost destroyed him when we ganged up on him this morning. But he has to take something for the pain, or he'll never get any rest!"

"He's probably scared of getting addicted again," Peter mused. "There's also the possibility of the drugs weakening whatever defenses he has left against these . . . others."

"Oh, dear," Lois murmured distractedly. "I hadn't thought of that. I'll talk to Mr. McGarry about possibly moving him right away."

"Do it soon, Lois," Peter urged. "Make it someplace relatively new, with no history of violence."

"Peter, this is Washington, D.C.!" Lois reminded him. "Where am I going to find a place like that?"

**********

"I really think you should talk to him alone," Lois murmured as they approached the door to the bedroom where Gary was, hopefully, resting. "Share a little 'guy talk,' if you know what I mean. He might say some things to you that he's too embarrassed to say in front of me."

"Lois," Bernie sighed, "he's *always* embarrassed! He gets nervous every time we walk in the room. If he's conscious, that is."

"Um. That's true," Lois mused. She paused at the door, one finger thoughtfully tapping her lower lip. "Look, why don't you go ahead and check on Gary, while I go talk to Mr. McGarry. Peter's afraid that these . . . these ghosts may be draining him, making him even weaker. I don't even pretend to know what he's talking about, but I do know that Gary's not getting any rest here. And . . . well . . ."

"You're feeling guilty about gangin' up on him," Bernie nodded. "He *might* feel a *little* less intimidated with only one of us. Okay, I'll see if I can't get him to open up a little. Poor kid. He's been raked over the coals so many times, he's starting to look a little singed around the edges."

As Lois set out to find the White House Chief of Staff, Bernie gently rapped on the bedroom door. Receiving no answer, he eased the door open and peeked in. 

Gary was stirring fitfully, his handsome features twisted in a grimace of pain. His lips moved soundlessly, as if he were talking in his sleep. Bernie slid quietly into the chair closest to the bed, listening intently to try to catch what his son was saying. The best he could catch was a name. Marley. A chill went down Bernie's spine as he pictured what must be going through Gary's mind. He was reliving the cruel treatment he had received at the hands of the villainous assassin.

"Hey, Gar," Bernie whispered, trying not to startle his son. "C'mon, kiddo. It's time to wake up. They'll be bringin' your lunch soon."

Gary's head turned toward the sound of his father's voice, and his eyes blinked open. "Hi, Dad," he murmured. His voice was weak, barely audible. "Sorry 'bout gettin' so mad b'fore. Shouldn't 've done that. Ya'll were only tryin' t' help."

"S'okay, kiddo," Bernie smiled. "We were pushin' ya into a corner. You were just tryin' to defend yourself, like I taught ya when you were just a kid. Remember?"

"Mm-hmm," Gary nodded, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. " I 'member. Broke Mom's lamp."

It took Bernie a moment to catch on, until he, too, remembered that ill-advised boxing lesson he had given Gary when he was eight. It had resulted in Bernie being knocked on his butt, and the lamp Lois had inherited from her paternal grandmother had ended up in about fifty pieces when his elbow hit the end-table it was standing on.

"Um, yeah," he chuckled. "We both caught hell for that. So, are ya feelin' any better, Gar? You still look kinda . . . out of it."

"I know," Gary sighed. "Don' un'erstan' it. I sssleep, but can't sseem to rest. Ssso tired."

Bernie noted, with growing alarm, that the dark smudges under Gary's eyes seemed even more pronounced than they had just a few short hours ago. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days. He recalled how wasted Gary had been after that episode with the ill-fated Tony Greco. Lois said he had gone through a similar trial with her and Gary's ancestor, Gary Chandler. The White House was rumored to have a *number* of ghostly residents! Could they *all* tap into Gary's life force? Bernie was the first to admit that he was leery of all the talk of 'doppelgangers' and 'restless spirits,' but there was no denying that his son was getting weaker by the hour. Even as he watched, helplessly, Gary was drifting off to sleep once more. Desperately Bernie tried to keep him awake.

"C'mon, Gar," Bernie urged in a near whisper. "Try to stay with me, here! You've gotta wake up and fight back!"

"F-fight who, Dad?" Gary murmured drowsily. "With what? 'Ve only seen two. Sso many I can't sssee. Ussually only feel li'l tired when . . . when they're . . . they're here. Nnot here alla time. Why'm I s' tired, Dad?"

"I don't know, son," Bernie sighed, wishing that Lois were there. She might know something, or someone who could help. "Talk to me," he urged. "Tell me about earlier, when you were so torn up about the drugs. You *know* we won't let the doctor do anything that might hurt you. And we are *definitely* not gonna let 'em turn you into a junkie. Don't you trust us to look out for you?"

"Trus' ya w' muh life, Dad," Gary replied. "Y' know that." Was his voice getting weaker? Gary dug deep within himself, trying to find the strength just to stay awake, to think. "N-need t' get outta here. T'day."

Looking at his son's pale, almost bloodless features and red-rimmed eyes, Bernie had to agree. Gary desperately needed to be in a hospital. If they didn't get him out of there soon, he *could* end up needing a mortician!

************

"I don't understand it," Dr. Michaels grumbled as he listened to Gary's heart through his stethoscope. "He was doing so well yesterday, except for not being able to sleep." Gary moaned softly in protest as the physician gently peeled back one of his eyelids. The exposed pupil reacted sluggishly on exposure to light. "If I didn't know any better, I'd almost swear he was drugged to the gills. Other than yourselves and Mr. McGarry, has anyone been alone with him today?"

"Not a living soul," Lois assured him. "One of us, or the nurse, is in the next room at all times and except for the balcony, there's no other way in." Unconsciously, she rubbed her sleeves, hugging herself as if she were cold. Why did she always feel such a chill in this room, she wondered?

Bernie noticed her discomfort and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. To him, the room seemed much too warm. The heat had been turned up that morning when Gary, too, had complained of the cold.

"Well," the doctor sighed, "we are *most definitely* going to have to move him back to the hospital. His blood pressure is dangerously low, his respirations are slow and shallow and he's become almost totally unresponsive. He needs to be hooked back up to the IV, and we need to do some blood tests. I'd also recommend a CT scan or an MRI of his brain. There has to be a rational cause for this."

'Fine,' Lois thought. 'You look for a 'rational cause.' Just so long as you take him somewhere else to look for it.' Secretly, she believed that Gary was once more the victim of 'other worldly' tormentors. Whether the spirits in question meant to harm her son, or not, wasn't the point. The damage they were doing to him was. 

'It doesn't matter where they take him,' Kathleen chuckled evilly. 'We can follow. By this time tomorrow, you'll have your revenge.'

The dark angel stood unseen next to a grimly smiling specter. He was lounging in the brocaded wing-backed chair that Abigail Bartlett had occupied on Gary's awakening just a few days before. His deceptively gentle pale blue eyes drank in the scene centered around his enemy with an open hunger. Reaching a hand out toward the figure on the bed, his eyes closed as a look of ecstasy softened his lean features.

'Wonderful,' the shade of J. T. Marley sighed. 'I can almost taste victory. When I first met him, I had no idea he had such . . . energy. Once the last of it is mine, I'll be able to leave this damned place and speak with my son, as you promised. *Then* we can go looking for Crumb.' He leaned back with a groan of pleasure. On the bed, Gary tossed his head as he uttered a matching groan. Of pain. 'Too bad he has to die so quickly. It might've been fun to stretch it out. Make him suffer before I steal the last of his essence. You know, I've often said that I've borrowed souls when I needed one. This is the first time I've ever consumed one. Delicious.' 

'It'll be the last time, too, you vindictive, soul-suckin' hellspawn.'

Kathleen spun around with a low, animal-like snarl as one corner of the room filled with a brilliant white radiance. Marley sprang to his feet, angered at this interruption of his 'feeding.'

'We can't permit this to happen,' a soft voice spoke up in a lilting Irish brogue. 'You know the rules, Kathleen,' Monica admonished. 'Unless the son is 'gifted,' he cannot possibly 'receive' communications from beyond the veil.'

'Nor can Mr. Marley Sr. follow Gary from this place,' the stout black woman spoke up in her strong southern accent. 'He's permitted to appear in only one of two places. No more.'

'The place where he died,' the third figure explained, 'or here, where he was once respected and honored for his 'devotion to duty.'' This last was said in a slightly mocking tone. 

'How *dare* you,' Kathleen hissed at the three angels. 'You have no right to interfere in a matter of retribution!'

'This ain't retribution, honey child,' Tess snorted. 'This is just plain ol' cussedness. Now, your side lost the wager fair and square. Gary Hobson has *proven* the purity of his soul.'

'He was willing to die so that others, complete strangers, so far as he knew, might live,' Monica reminded them. 'He even ignored the implied peril to his own soul, trusting in God's forgiveness, with no inkling as to whether or not you spoke the truth.'

'Once he's removed from this place,' Andrew added, speaking directly to Marley, 'you can't touch him. Nor will you be able to communicate with any living creature. You've both far overstepped your bounds.'

'You, um, you may influence mortals,' the mousy looking fourth angel finally spoke up hesitantly, 'but you can't do anything to directly harm, or aid, them without direct permission from, um, Him.' Wincing, she pointed towards the heavens. 'You have to go through channels, just like the rest of us.'

Fuming, Marley spun on his co-conspirator.

'You assured me we couldn't fail!' he snapped. 'That no one could stop us! That I could leave this . . . this torment behind me! All the secrets I've learned, all the power I could give my son over these pathetic fools! Now, *they* tell me I'm trapped here forever!'

'Not forever,' Monica told him with a stern frown. 'As we told you, there is another place you may go, but it will mean you can never return here. The thirteenth floor of the Randolph Building. In the office where you died. Where you committed such heinous crimes.'

'Even then,' Andrew reminded him, 'you can still redeem yourself. Just ask God to forgive you. It's not that hard.'

'I'd rather rot in Hell,' Marley snapped. 

'That can be arranged, too,' was Tess' ominous response.

'Damn you all,' Kathleen snapped, her dark eyes seething with hatred. 'I will yet prove that *any* soul can be corrupted! Even his!' She flung a hand out in an imperious gesture, her finger pointing directly at the feebly rousing figure on the bed, as she disappeared.

Marley was left alone with the four messengers of God. Sputtering angrily, he asked what they had meant about a 'wager.'

'Millennia ago,' Monica explained, 'the Fallen One made the statement that no soul, no matter how pure, could resist corruption. The Lord God made no reply, at first, feeling secure that he had created more than one perfect soul. Finally, he realized that Lucifer was not one to take anything on faith. So, a wager was struck. A soul is chosen, each generation, to endure terrible hardships. Job was one. He almost failed. The soul which now resides within Gary Hobson has been singled out repeatedly. He has lost faith in himself many times, but never in God.'

'Nor has any lapse of faith kept him long from his duties to his fellow man,' Tess added. 'Simply put, he's a good, caring man. He'd even try to help you, if he could.'

This observation failed to make a favorable impression on the vengeful spirit. Furious, he threw his arms wide and expelled all the life energy he had stolen from Gary in a prolonged burst of destruction. Pictures toppled from the walls, eliciting a startled cry from Lois and the nurse. Windows shattered. Curtains were ripped from their rods and fluttered around the room. A lamp sailed from the desk and smashed against the headboard, showering a groggily protesting Gary with bits of shattered glass and other debris. The stethoscope yanked itself from the doctor's neck and wrapped itself around Gary's, sinking deep into his flesh! Bernie leaned in and snatched the rubber tubing from around his son's throat as Gary began to make choking sounds. The fallen pictures flew up and, one at a time, propelled themselves toward their helpless target!

Bernie knocked the first couple of pictures away easily, deflecting them from Gary's weakly struggling form. A small bud vase got past his guard, though, striking his son's wounded shoulder. Gary cried out as the sudden increase in pain finally pierced the lethargic fog which had been creeping across his mind all day. He groggily opened his eyes to find that his father was trying to shield him with his own body.

"D-Dad?" he murmured in bewilderment. "Wha's goin' on?"

"Just be still, son," Bernie grunted softly, as something struck his back. "You're gonna be okay. We're getting you outta here as soon as the a-ambulance . . . Jesus! Enough, already! Don't these spooks ever give up?"

'That's enough!' Tess snapped. With a wave of her hand, the remaining projectiles fell harmlessly to the floor. 'You're behaving like a spoiled child, Mr. Marley, Sr. It's time to take your punishment like a man. Now, you were given the choice of either staying here, where you are reminded every day of what you once were, or going to the place where you died. Where that man you are tryin' to destroy tried to stop *you* before it was too late. Which is it gonna be, you soul suckin' vampire?'

'Get me the hell out of here,' Marley growled.

'Done,' Andrew said. Marley vanished. 

The four angels all shifted their gaze over to where Bernie was cautiously raising his head and looking around, as if he couldn't quite believe it was over. Gary was blinking back tears of pain as he grasped his injured shoulder with his good hand.

'Is he going to be okay?' the mousy angel, Gloria, asked.

'Eventually,' Tess assured her. 'Gary's a lot tougher than he thinks he is. No matter what life throws at him, he always manages to hang in there. Time for us to go, children.'

All four of them vanished.

"Someone wanna tell me wha's goin' on?" Gary asked through gritted teeth. Something trickled down his face, startling him. He brushed at his cheek, giving voice to a tiny hiss as something sliced his finger and his face at the same instant. He looked at the blood oozing from his finger in amazement. 

"Don't move," the doctor warned him. "There's broken glass everywhere. Let us help you over to this chair, so we can get this mess cleaned up. Easy," he admonished as Bernie gingerly took his son by the hand. "He's covered in tiny slivers of the stuff." Dr. Michaels pulled the covers aside, trying to keep any more glass from falling back on Gary, then helped the injured man swing his legs over the side of the bed. "Just sit there a moment until the dizziness passes."

"I-I'm okay," Gary murmured, still clearly puzzled by what had just happened. Feeling more than a little dazed, he let his parents help him to the wing-backed chair, which the nurse had quickly thrown a sheet over, hoping to trap any fragments before they got into the fabric. Once he was safely settled, Gary looked around at the evidence of willful destruction and winced. The room looked like a tornado had ripped through it! Stunned, he turned his puzzled gaze on his dad. "Did I miss something?"

"Not much," Bernie replied with a shrug. "Just a little poltergeist activity. You know, flying vases and lamps, things breaking. That kinda stuff."

Gary's mind was still fuzzy on a lot of things, but he clearly remembered his father shielding him with his own body. Gratitude and love shown from his eyes as he took his father's hand and murmured, "Thanks, Dad." 

"Any time, son," Bernie smiled, patting his son's good shoulder carefully. "Any time."

************

It took the better part of an hour before they were sure Gary was clean of broken glass. His mom pulled out one of her makeup brushes and gently removed tiny slivers from his face, being especially careful of his eyes. At the same time, the nurse picked and combed fragments from his hair. Gary endured all this attention stoically, still feeling somewhat detached. Even with his parents supporting him on each side, it had been as much as he could do just to make it across the few feet separating the bed and the chair. He roused enough to lodge a protest, however, when the two women started removing his pajamas.

"We have to make sure none of the glass fell into your clothing, hon," Lois tried to reason with him. "You don't want to turn over and find we missed a piece."

"Depends on how far down you want to look!" Gary told her, his face starting to redden. 

"Most of it was probably trapped by the gauze bandages," the nurse chuckled. "Your father and Dr. Michaels will take care of anything lower than that."

"Oh," Gary murmured, somewhat mollified by her statement. "I-I guess that's okay." He looked over to where the President and Leo were staring around in wide-eyed amazement at the destruction. The housekeeping staff had been called and were in the process of stripping the bed, being extremely careful to avoid getting cut, themselves. "Sorry 'bout the mess."

"That's okay," President Bartlett replied, waving a hand dismissively. "I've always heard the tales of Lincoln's ghost, but I never knew he had such a temper!"

"Wasn't Mr. Lincoln," Gary corrected him, glancing over at a figure only he could see standing by the window. "H-he, they tried to warn me, but I never got the chance to act on it. He, um, Mr. L-Lincoln, that is, says that it's gone now. That it should be okay f-for me to stay, if you, um, if you could post a guard inside the room," he added, wincing. He couldn't believe he was relaying suggestions from a President who had died almost one hundred and forty years before. How could he expect President Bartlett, or Leo, to believe it? Gary squirmed uncomfortably as everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at him. "He says that M-Marley h-has informers inside th-the White House, and that he might . . . might use one of them to get at me." He gave the President a wry smile that fell far short of his eyes. "Sounds crazy, doesn't it?" 

"Of course it does," Josiah Bartlett snorted. "But it makes sense. Marley strikes me as being a little too aware of our activities. The man either has an informant on our staff, or he's clairvoyant. Going by recent events," he added, glancing around at the mess, "I'm reserving judgment. A guard inside your door would definitely seem to be in order. Leo, do you think we could arrange a little something?"

"Shouldn't be too hard," the Chief of Staff shrugged. He, too, was impressed by the amount of debris. "I'm afraid he'll only be able to defend you against, um, more mundane assassins."

"We have some friends coming that may be able to help with the other kind," Lois assured them as she helped remove the gauze encircling Gary's chest. She ignored the sympathetic hiss one of the men gave vent to as they got their first look at the injuries her son had suffered. They could only imagine the pain that he'd had to overcome in order to stop Marley's heinous plot.

"Were you able to get a message to Peter?" Gary asked, wincing as a shard of glass nicked him. Lois gently snagged it with a corner of the gauze before it could inflict more damage. 

"Yes, dear," Lois replied. "He can't come, but he's sending reinforcements. Jake and Polly should be here in the morning. Oh, and they're going to see if Dr. Griner can come, too. You missed an appointment for this week, anyway, so maybe they can talk him into it."

"I dunno, Mom," Gary murmured. "That's an awful long way for just an hour's talk."

"It's *therapy,* sweetie," Lois reminded him. "With all the stress you've been under; lately, you can't afford to let a session slide for long. I'm sure he'd be honored to visit the White House."

"I doubt that he'll be as impressed with the building as he will be with the people," Gary chuckled. His parents had never met Dr. Griner and knew nothing of his special circumstances. He briefly debated telling them, then decided to let them be surprised. 

***********

Once everything was cleaned up and Gary was safely back in bed, the doctor examined him one more time and pronounced him fit to remain where he was. For the time being.

"I'm not going to pretend to believe what just happened," Dr. Michaels stated as he packed his instruments away, "but it's hard to deny the evidence of your own eyes. So long as you continue to regain strength, you should be all right. If you should feel yourself start to backslide . . ."

"I promise to tell someone," Gary assured him. "I'm not all that anxious to die, Doc. Trust me on that."

Dr. Michaels gave him a steady look, then nodded his head as if he had decided to believe him. He reached into his bag and withdrew a small pill bottle. He twisted off the cap and shook out a single orange pill.

"MS Contin," he explained, placing the pill in Gary's hand. "We'll start with 60 mgs, a moderate dose. It should kick in by the time you're ready to go to sleep. If this helps you, we'll leave it at that for a couple of days. By next Tuesday, we should be able to half that. When you're ready to go home, we should have you down to 15 mgs. After that, you'll be able to take care of the pain with over-the-counter remedies."

"No, um," Gary licked lips that had gone suddenly dry at the sight of the tiny pill. "N-no withdrawal?"

"That usually only happens if you've been on it a prolonged period of time," the physician assured him. "Why you started having symptoms after only a few days of use, I can't explain. That's why I'm not giving this to you twice a day, as recommended. Your body already seems to have a . . . well, a susceptibility to certain drugs. So your reticence earlier is not only understandable, now, it's laudable. You're one of those people who *must* exercise iron-willed control over your body. Addiction is a very real danger for you, Mr. Hobson."

Gary studied the tiny pill, wishing that there was some other way for him to get relief from the throbbing pain in his shoulder. Not to mention all the smaller agonies from the wounds left by Marley's torture session. 

"Wh-what if I decide to, um, to tough it out?" he asked, unable to hide his nervousness. "I mean, well, s-sometimes the pain isn't so bad."

"And how often is that?" Dr. Michaels asked in return. His voice was gentle, now that he understood his patient's objections a little better, but firm. "When you first wake up? Maybe two, three times a day when it's a little less agonizing than it was an hour before? I've warned you that stress can weaken you. It can leave you wide open to any number of secondary infections. Now, we can restart your IV, pump you full of antibiotics, but even high doses of those, over a prolonged period, carry a certain risk. They can irritate the veins to the point of collapse, for one thing. For another, you could develop a bacterial infection that is resistant to the medication. Oral antibiotics can tear up the digestive tract. I can guarantee that a bad case of diarrhea won't give you any rest, but it might take your mind off of the pain."

Gary flashed the doctor a sideways grin, letting him know that he got the joke. He then heaved a sigh of defeat, quickly popping the orange tablet into his mouth and washing it down with a big gulp of water, before he could think of anymore objections. When it was done, his mother set his supper tray in front of him. Gary just looked at the globs of pureed foods and made a rueful face.

"I'm really not hungry," he murmured.

"You haven't eaten all day," the doctor reminded him. "The morphine hits a lot harder on an empty stomach."

"Then get me a milkshake, or something," Gary grumbled. "Even broth and gelatin is better than this!"

"I knew you'd say that," Bernie chuckled. He stepped to the door and waved at someone. A moment later, a paper bag was handed through. Bernie murmured a thank you, then returned to the group around the bed. "One of the security guys said there was this great deli downtown. So I sent out for a few things. Let's see," he mused, peering inside the bag. "We got cream of broccoli soup and a pineapple shake. Will that do?"

"Aww, bless you, Dad!" Gary sighed, eagerly accepting the container of soup. He let his Mom remove the plastic lid, drinking the steaming soup straight from the cup. "This is more like it! I could care less about broccoli, but this is great." Setting the cup down, he took the spoon and fished out a chunk of the green vegetable, popping it into his mouth before anyone could object. It was so tender, it fell apart in his mouth, but he didn't care. At least it was solid for a moment! He closed his eyes in an expression of purest bliss, causing more than a few snorts and snickers, but Gary ignored them. 'Today, broccoli,' he thought to himself. 'Tomorrow, French fries. I hope.' "Have I told you, lately, that you guys are the best mom and dad in the world?"

"Not in so many words," Bernie chuckled. "No, but we got the message."

************

As soon as Gary's attention was diverted by food that actually looked like what it was supposed to be, Dr. Michaels gently, but firmly, took Bernie by the arm and led him into the next room. The elder Hobson started to protest, but kept his silence when the physician put a finger to his lips. They both waited until the door had closed between them and the others before speaking.

"What's wrong, Doc?" Bernie asked, casting a worried glance back toward the door. "He's gonna be okay, isn't he? He already looks stronger. What . . .?"

"Gary's fine," Dr. Michaels hastened to assure him. "Or at least showing a marked improvement. You're the one I'm worried about, right now. Take off your shirt."

Bernie tried to bluff his way out of it, giving the doctor a 'startled' look. "Come again, Doc?" he chuckled, a hand unconsciously going to his shoulder. "I'm fine. Gary's the one that's hurt."

"Gary's not the one who got pelted by flying brick-a-brack," the doctor remarked acidly. "Please, let me see your back."

Grumbling in defeat, Bernie grudgingly complied. Dr. Michaels studied the assortment of bruises and abrasions with a clinical eye. Probing gently, he found more than a few suspicious areas.

"Make up some story," he told Bernie. "Some excuse for you to disappear for a few hours. We should get an x-ray of those ribs. We'll also get you something for pain. Nothing as strong as Gary needs, but a mild narcotic to help you rest tonight."

"Is all that necessary?" Bernie groused. "It's just a few bruises. I've been hurt worse 'curling.'"

"I can see where your son gets his stubborn streak," Dr. Michaels sighed. "Do you want me to have to explain to your *widow* the possible consequences of an undiagnosed rib fracture? I didn't think so. Now, make your excuses so we can get this taken care of. *Immediately."*

With a martyred sigh, Bernie eased back into his shirt, not bothering to stifle a few grunts and groans now that the secret was out. His biggest worry was what to tell Lois. She had enough to worry about with Gary.

**************

As promised, the pain eased and Gary started feeling drowsy a few hours after supper. The man assigned to guard him helped him to get settled into a comfortable position as he finally drifted off to sleep. His dreams were happy ones, at first. Disjointed scenes of home, his family and friends. Of places he loved, things he enjoyed doing. Of people he loved doing them with. 

The guard checked on him a couple of times before stretching out on a cot lying in front of the boarded up French doors. Each time, he noted how relaxed and content the injured man looked. As he sank onto his temporary bed, the guard heard the faint sound of footsteps as two sentries passed below the balcony. No one could get into the White House without being seen, the only weak point being the shattered doors. If anyone were to attack Hobson, it would have to be someone already on the inside. Which was why two other agents were playing cards in the next room. 

Having drifted off into a light doze, himself, the guard was unaware at what point his charge began to moan softly in his sleep. The first he knew of any trouble was when he was awakened by a choked cry of pain. Instantly alert, the guard rolled out of bed and was at Gary's side in less than a second.

Gary was tossing his head from side to side fitfully, squirming around as if he were unable to get comfortable. His features were twisted in pain as he fought the demons within his own mind.

~~~~~~~~~~

Gary strained against the steel cuffs in a futile effort to win free, and stop Marley from carrying out his insidious plot! He watched helplessly as the canny assassin loaded the rifle and lined up his sights on the doorway across the street. Once again, he tried to argue the renegade into giving up his plan. To no avail. He shouted, screamed, cajoled, anything to distract Marley from his evil purpose! He jerked his head around as Crumb and his detectives burst into the room . . .

And found himself chained to his wheelchair! Savalas had one hand tangled in Gary's hair, yanking his head back painfully. The rogue cop laughed in his face, then slammed his head forward before straightening up to land a solid kick in his stomach and ribs! Gary fought to subdue his rebellious stomach, only to lose that battle, too. Cold steel bit deeply into his left wrist as . . .

He dangled from the stout crossbeam, both arms stretched painfully above his head as the metal cuffs bit deep into his wrists. Behind him, he could hear the dry straw crunch with each step of Jaggs Neff's angry pacing. Heard the rattling clink of the chain as the escaped murderer ran it through his hands. Gary tensed as he heard the swish of the chain swinging in to . . .

"Quiirr-rrr-owrr?"

What the . . .? 

"Quiirrr-rrr-owrr?"

Startled, Gary looked around to find that the nightmare scene had vanished. He was back in his loft, in his own bed. The cat was butting its orange-striped head against his chin and making purring noises. Dazed, and a little confused, Gary reached down with his left hand to stroke the animal's soft fur.

"Hey, fella," he murmured. "How'd we get here?" Gary then noticed which hand he was using, and realized that he must still be dreaming. "Oh. Well, I like your dream a lot better than mine," he told the cat, scratching him behind the ears. "Ya mind if we hang out here for a little while, hmm?"

~~~~~~~~

Startled, the guard reared back a step as the orange-striped feline jumped up onto the bed. How the hell did *that* get in here, he wondered? He started to grab the cat away from his charge, only to draw his hand back when the tabby flattened its ears to its skull and growled deep in its chest. The cat snuggled up close to Hobson's injured side and glared at the guard, as if daring him to try anything. Amazingly, as the cat settled in, Hobson seemed to settle down. His face lost that pained, almost panicked look, and a tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as if he had finally found a comfortable position. 

The guard decided that the cat presented no danger to Hobson. In fact, it seemed that they, the cat and the guard, had a shared purpose. Protecting Gary Hobson. While the guard and his associates guarded his *physical* body, however, the cat was looking after the one thing that they couldn't.

His peace of mind.

**********

Saturday March 2, The White House - 0800 hrs

It was the banging that woke Gary up. That and the sudden influx of bright sunlight pouring in where the workmen had just removed the damaged French doors. Blinking reflexively, he shaded his eyes with his right hand as he looked toward the source of all the noise. The men were fitting new doors in place of the ones damaged by the minor tempest that had hit his room the day before.

The door leading to the outer room swung open, admitting a waiter pushing a cart, followed by Gary's parents. Lois was holding the Paper, while Bernie carried the cat in both arms. One hand was idly scratching the satisfied feline under the chin. 

"Oh, good," Lois said, smiling as she spied her son. "You're awake. How do you feel, sweetie?"

"B-better," Gary admitted hesitantly. He cast a dubious eye at the tray on the cart. "There better not be pureed bacon under that thing."

"You're in luck, Gar," Bernie chuckled a he placed the cat on the bed. He helped Gary to sit up and slide back until his spine was propped against the headboard. When the waiter set the lap tray across the patient's legs, Bernie whipped the cover off with a flourish. "Scrambled eggs, toast, and hash browns. With a side of gravy."

"Are you kidding me?" Gary stared at the steaming dishes, a big smile spreading across his pallid features. "Aw, man! Real food, at last!" He eagerly snatched up a piece of buttered toast and bit into it. His face took on an expression of purest bliss as he savored the texture of solid food.

"The doctor wrote the orders last night," Lois told him. She pulled a chair up by the bed and picked up his fork. Gary knew he could feed himself, now, but he willingly submitted to her attention. "He said you need to eat in order to tone down the narcotic effect of the morphine. *And* to get your strength back. Since you objected so strongly to the extra-soft foods, he upgraded you a notch. If you do well with this, you could be off restrictions by Monday night."

Gary was only half way listening to his mother's words. He was too busy enjoying the best meal he had eaten since . . . a week ago! Gary was astonished to realize that it was just a few hours short of a week since the shooting. If not for the attack in the hospital room, he would be resting at home by this time. Thinking back to that day with a shudder, Gary recalled being too nervous to eat, that morning. By the time he had landed in the D.C. area, his only nourishment had been two cups of coffee. Speaking of which . . .

As if on cue, Bernie handed his son a steaming cup, doctored just the way he liked it. 

"Thanks, Dad. Mom," Gary murmured, taking a sip. "This is perfect. Not too fast, Mom. Now that I've finally got real food, I don't wanna lose it." He gratefully accepted the fork so that he could eat at his own pace. "Thish is wonnerful," he mumbled around a mouthful of eggs. He paused to look up at his parents, swallowing before he tried to speak again. "You aren't eating?"

"We had breakfast with the President and his wife earlier," Bernie grinned. "Just wait 'til the guys back home hear about *that!* And we got pictures to prove it!"

"Oh, and Jake called a little while ago," Lois spoke up. "He and Ms. Gannon should be here in time for lunch."

"Did they talk with Dr. Griner?" Gary asked between bites. "Is he coming?"

"Yes," his mom assured him. "Jake said that they would pick him up before going to the airport. He said that Dr. Griner was anxious to see you. He, Dr. Griner that is, was worried when you missed your appointment." She gave Gary a steady look. "Exactly how much have you told him?"

"Not about . . . that," Gary replied, glancing briefly at the Paper in her lap. It was all he could do not to snatch it up and scan the headlines. He was sure that his mother had already faxed Peter all the important stuff, anyway. "That's, well, a little out of his field."

"Gary," Bernie chuckled, "that's a little out of *anyone's* field!"

***********

After breakfast, the nurse dropped by to change Gary's dressings. Lois had stayed to assist her, and Bernie found himself at loose ends. Excusing himself, he decided to take Toby Zeigler up on his invitation to tour the West Wing with the laconic Communications Director. He had said to meet him outside the Pressroom, where C. J. Cregg would soon be giving a special report on the situation in Afghanistan.

********

The tall, angular, redhead tapped her notes together with a brisk gesture. Staring out at the thirty or so faces before her, C. J. Cregg wrapped up her release with the usual. "Questions?" She nodded at the reporter for the United Press. 

"Can you tell us anything about the near collision of the Vice President's train?" the woman asked. "Was it random cyber sabotage, or a deliberate attempt on a political figure?"

"We have no new information on that incident," C. J. replied. "Next? Dave?" she asked of the man from the New York Times.

"Any word on the gentlemen who stopped the collision?" he asked. 

Frustrated, C. J. laid the stack of notes on the podium and gripped the edges with both hands. *"What* has any of this to do with the Afghanistan situation?" she asked them. 

"You're evading the question, C. J." the man persisted.

"The train incident is still under investigation," she sighed. *"Two* of the men involved in stopping the wreck were National Security agents, the third was a private citizen who had been abducted from a small airfield a few miles from the station. I stress the word *'private.'* The gentleman does *not* want to see his name in print. Gwen?" She indicated a reporter from a prominent London periodical.

"Pardon me for continuing this subject," she smiled, "but this is *so8 much more interesting than that bin Laden fellow. The gentleman who was shot. What is his condition, and why was it necessary to sequester him in the Residence?"

"He was moved into the Residence under medical supervision after an attempt on his life," the Press Secretary replied, giving it up as a lost cause. "It was either that or a 'safe house,' where he actually would have been in almost as much risk as he was in the hospital. It also allowed us to extend the same protection to members of his family who flew in to be with him. After a brief setback, his condition is stable and improving. And that is *all* I can say on the subject. Walter?"

The correspondent from CNN lowered his hand. "Is there *nothing* you can tell us about this man of mystery?" he asked, his mouth twisted in a wry grin. "Where he's from? Anything?"

"I can tell you that he doesn't see himself as a hero," C. J. replied. "He thinks that any one of us would've done the same thing, given the circumstances. Personally, I'd like to think he's right. I *don't* think very many of us would've had the courage, but it would be nice if we all had the desire. Anything else *other* than the mystery man? No? That's a wrap, then, people. Have a nice weekend."

**********

Bernie had taken his time strolling toward the Pressroom. Occasionally, he was questioned by one of the security personnel, but was ignored for the most part. Most of the hustle and bustle was around the offices of the White House staff, leaving the corridor leading to his destination almost empty. He wandered past the closed doors, not wanting to be in the way when everyone came out. 

A red ball came bouncing around the corner of the T-junction a few feet ahead of him. It rebounded off of a planter and rolled to a stop against Bernie's foot. He bent down to pick it up, sure that the owner would be along any second. Rapid footsteps told him that his guess was on the money. Looking up, he almost dropped the toy ball as he fell backwards, landing flat on his butt on the soft carpeting, his jaw dropping open in astonishment.

A dark haired little boy of about four or five years of age came running around the corner. He saw the ball in Bernie's hand and stopped in his tracks. The child watched solemnly as the strange man got to his feet. He met Bernie's stunned gaze with open curiosity, and a measure of caution.

"Can I have my ball back, mister?" he asked. "Please?"

"Huh? Oh, sure. Here ya go, kid." Bernie returned the toy with a gentle underhand toss, which the child easily caught. "What's your name, kiddo?"

The boy studied the question a moment before deciding to trust this stranger. "Geran," he said in his clear, childish voice. "What's yours?" 

"My friends call me Bernie. Where's your mom and dad?" Bernie noticed that the little boy made no attempt to approach him. Someone had taught him to be wary of strangers. Even friendly ones.

"Daddy's sleeping," Geran replied. "He had to work all night. Mommy's in there," he added, pointing at the Pressroom door. "She's a 'porter. Do you work here, too?"

"Nah," Bernie shrugged. "I'm just visiting. My son is a guest of the President. Have you met the President, yet?"

"Uh-huh!" the boy nodded eagerly. "He showed me Santa. And I helped him find East eggs last year! He said I could help him *this* year, too! Is your son famous? The Pres'dent knows *lots* of 'leberties. Do you know any 'leberties, Bernie?"

"One or two," Bernie shrugged. He couldn't get over how much this child reminded him of Gary at that age. Geran even had the same color eyes, that almost translucent shade of mud-puddle green that only Gary and his cousins shared. 

At that moment, the Pressroom door opened and people started pouring out into the corridor. Looking back, Bernie spotted a familiar face. A pretty woman, with a thick mass of auburn hair, was speaking to a fellow reporter as the two of them stepped thru the door. Startled, Bernie recognized her from a picture he had seen just the other day. It was right next to her by-line in the Washington Post. Meredith Carson. The woman Gary had called an 'old girlfriend.' She didn't notice either him or the child until Geran called out to her. 

"Mommy!" the boy shouted gleefully, running past Bernie. "Mommy, can we go see the animals, now? You promised we could. Please?"

"Sure, Gary," the woman replied, a big smile lighting up her face as she scooped up her child. "Right after Mommy files her story. Who's your friend?" she asked, giving Bernie a suspicious look, while keeping up the cheerful tone.

Bernie's heart had dropped into his stomach when she called her son's name, and his face showed a strange mix of emotions. Hesitantly, he stepped up to the mother and her child.

"My name is Bernie Hobson," he said, his eyes holding hers for a heartbeat before shifting his gaze to the boy in her arms. "I believe you know my son. Gary."

If someone had sucker-punched the woman, she couldn't have looked more stunned, frightened, even. Breathless, her face losing most of its color, she staggered back a step. She looked quickly around, seemingly relieved to find that they were alone in the corridor, the other reporters already well down the hall, eager to file their own columns.

"H-Hobson?" she whispered fearfully. "Y-you're Gary's f-father?" At Bernie's silent nod, Meredith took a cautious step forward. "How is he, really? I heard there were . . . problems."

"He's fine," Bernie assured her. He was finding it hard to look away from the little boy. Tentatively, he held his arms out. "Do you think I could just . . . just this once?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

Meredith seemed to think it over, glancing at Geran, who nodded eagerly. The child seemed to sense something special about this stranger. "He won't hurt me, Mommy," he told her. "I think he's a *nice* man."

"Alright," she sighed, as Geran, with a squeal of delight, held his arms out to Bernie. "I guess we should go somewhere and talk about this. In private."

Holding his grandson for the first, and possibly last time, Bernie could only nod. He hugged the boy tightly, careful not to squeeze too much, as tears rolled down his weathered cheeks. Finally, he was able to find his voice.

"I, um, I think we'd better," he agreed with a shuddering sigh. "We have a lot to talk about."

***********

It wasn't hard to find an empty office on a Saturday. Meredith set Geran to watching TV in the outer office while she and Bernie retreated behind closed doors. They pulled up a couple of office chairs and sat facing each other in such a way that they could keep an eye on the boy in the next room.

"He doesn't know?" Bernie asked, nodding his head towards the boy in the next room.

"I married not long after Geran was born," Meredith explained, shaking her head with a wistful smile. "His name is Edward Chisum, and he's a Treasury Agent. Specifically, he's with the Secret Service. Edward is the only father Geran has ever known."

"When did Gary find out?" the older Hobson murmured. He waved at Geran through the glass partition, forcing a smile. "Or *does* he know?"

"He knows," she sighed. "We were on the train. The first I realized what had happened was when the train made an unscheduled stop. A lot of us got out to see what was going on, and to stretch our legs after several hours cooped up on that train. Then the shooting started, and we saw Gary fall. I wasn't close enough to recognize him, at first." Meredith pressed both hands to her mouth as she replayed the scene in her mind, fighting back tears. "Wh-when I saw him . . . lying there so . . . so pale a-and so much blood . . ."

Bernie took her by the hands, pulling them down to rest on her knees. They were ice cold. He held them in his larger, weathered hands, massaging them a little to warm them up.

"I know," he told her. "His mother and I . . . we found him . . . God! It's been almost two years ago, now. He'd fallen down the stairs to his loft."

"Loft?" Meredith interrupted, confused. "He doesn't live at the Blackstone anymore?"

"No," Bernie sighed. "He owns a bar, now. McGinty's. Gary's room at the Blackstone was destroyed in a fire and, um, he was given the bar shortly after that."

"Let me guess," Meredith chuckled dryly. "He saved someone's life, didn't he?"

"Um, yeah," Bernie nodded. "We can catch you up on the last five years, later. You were telling me how Gary found out about his son."

"Yes," she murmured. "I'd left Geran with one of the porters, thinking to beat the rush to find out what was going on. The shooting had already stopped, and I thought it was safe enough, so long as Geran was out of danger. I was so . . . stunned to see Gary . . . I forgot to ask questions, or even have pictures taken. Thankfully, my photographer remembered and was too busy to hear me say his name. Gary was just barely hanging on, poor baby. I know he was already starting to pass out when Geran came running up, yelling for me. Gary took one look at him, and just knew. When I saw him later, at the hospital, we agreed not to say anything. Partly out of consideration for Geran. He's too young to understand any of this, just yet. Also, Gary was terrified that the men who shot him might use a child to . . . to force him into doing something that . . . D-do you know about . . . the, um, 'special edition' he gets every morning?"

"Yyeeah," Bernie sighed. "From what he's said, these bozos would enjoy watching him squirm for a while, then kill both of them when it stopped being 'fun.' The bastards."

"I think that's putting it mildly," Meredith agreed. "Gary's afraid, no, terrified of them. He knows that he's pretty much confined to the Chicago area, but his enemies aren't. They can strike at Gary through anyone they see as being close to him. Th-that's why I haven't been to see him, and it's why you can't tell *anyone* about Geran. Don't even let Gary know that you know. He's worried enough as it is."

"Don't worry," Bernie assured her. "He won't find out from me. It'll be odd keeping a secret from him, for a change, but we can handle . . . um, I better not tell Lois, either. She's great at keeping a secret, too, but we're talking about her only grandchild. It'll kill her, not being able to see him."

"That's one of the reasons he didn't want either of you to know," Meredith nodded sadly. "To spare your feelings. *So,* tell me how Gary got the title to McGinty's, and what was it you were saying about a fall?"

*************

Lois had finally gotten to wondering at Bernie's prolonged absence. She was secretly afraid he might've found some way to get himself a one-way trip to Leavenworth. 

A gentleman she met in a downstairs hallway remembered having seen him in the corridor leading to the Pressroom, so she headed down that way. Eventually, she could hear the sound of a ball bouncing. Curious, Lois turned down another hallway leading to a suite of offices that she was sure should have been empty at this time of day on a weekend. The rhythmic sound lured her there, as surely as if she were a fish, sniffing at a baited hook. She finally reached the source. Lois looked in through the glass partition at a little, dark-haired boy, standing with his back to her. He was bouncing a red ball against the edge of one of the desks, catching it on the rebound. A TV off to one side showed cartoons that, evidently, held no interest for the child. Looking a little past him, Lois finally spotted Bernie seated in one of the inner offices, talking earnestly with a pretty, auburn haired woman. Possibly the boy's mother. Lois tried waving, but the two were so engrossed in their discussion, neither of them noticed. She tapped on the window to get their attention, not really wanting to barge in.

The noise did get their attention, as well as startling the little boy. He missed his catch, turning to see what had caused the break in his concentration. Looking up, he met her startled gaze through the translucent barrier.

Stunned, Lois had one hand to her mouth, the other to her heart, as she stared, transfixed, into those crystal clear, mud puddle green eyes. They were framed by a face that would live in her heart forever, as would each second of her son's life. This was Gary. Not the Gary she knew, now. This was her Gary as he had looked when he was not yet five years old! She was so shocked by the resemblance to the child her son had once been, Lois failed to notice that the couple beyond him were staring at her in dismay.

*********

"How long have you known?" Lois asked Bernie, her tone bordering on an accusation. She had been quickly hustled into the inner office, after being introduced to Geran. Giving him a restrained, but tearfully warm, embrace, Lois had noticed the tiny birthmark just in front of his right ear, confirming her suspicions. "Why did he tell you, and not me?"

"He didn't, Lo," Bernie sighed. "I found out by accident less than an hour ago. Gary didn't want either of us to know, to protect us and the boy. He's scared, honey. Scared to death that the . . . 'people' who kidnapped and tortured him, who tried to kill him in the hospital, might go after the kid. Use him to get to Gary. He didn't want us to know, because he didn't want us worrying about a grandchild we might never get to see. And," he admitted ruefully, "he's probably afraid that one of us might spill the beans. Let the cat out of the bag, so to speak."

"Oh, yes," Lois mused, slightly mollified. "I can see his point." She chewed absently at her thumbnail as she considered all the scenarios that must have gone through Gary's mind at the discovery. Her face paled as a couple of the more gruesome ones presented themselves. "He did the right thing. And for the right reasons, for once. Oh, Bernie! What are we going to do? We can't tell Gary that we know! It'll distract him from, well . . ." She shot Meredith a worried glance.

"I know about the Paper," Meredith told them. "I was . . . pretty close to Gary for a while. It was something a little hard to conceal, under those circumstances. That's another reason I never told Gary about Geran. He had enough to worry about." She looked down at her hands, biting her lip in indecision before confessing. "That, and I was angry at him. The Paper proved too much of a temptation, for me. I tried to use it for my own ends and almost died because of my stupidity. That was when I took the job at The Post. I wanted Gary to come with me, to give up the Paper and find a life with me, on my terms. But I knew what he'd say before I even asked. So, I didn't tell him I was already pregnant with his child. That would've been too . . . convenient. It also would've killed him. Not right away, but by slow degrees. I knew that, for the child's sake, he'd do anything I asked, give up everything. But, eventually, every time he heard a siren, or read about someone he could've saved, or some disaster he could've stopped, if he had only known . . . he would start dying inside, and whatever love we shared would die with him, until there was nothing left but an empty husk. I just couldn't do that to him. So I left. I met Edward a few months later, the night Geran was born. He'd been wounded in a training accident. I never learned the details. Anyway, we dated for a few months, and he finally proposed. He's been a wonderful father to my son, and a very loving husband. In fact," she added with a tentative smile, one hand going to her abdomen, "we're expecting another child in about six months."

"That's wonderful," Lois replied with genuine warmth. "I'd always wanted Gary to have a brother or sister, but we were never that lucky. Well, I guess that explains some of his moodiness since we got here. So, what happens now?"

"She wants to take the boy up to meet Gary," Bernie replied numbly. He wanted to say 'our grandson' so bad it hurt, but felt that he shouldn't get into the habit. He might let something slip at an inopportune moment if he relaxed his guard for even a second. Gary was right, on that score. Grandparents loved to brag about their grandchildren.

"Geran saw him at the station," Meredith explained. "H-he saw all the blood and, well, he's his father's son," she added with a choked laugh. "He wants to know that Gary's alright. It's been bothering him since it happened and he's been having nightmares. Is there some way we can get in to see him without arousing suspicion?"

"I don't know," Bernie sighed. "How many people know he saw Gary?"

"Everyone who was there," the reporter sighed dismally. "Including the Vice President and his family. Geran was frantic. The sight of all that blood shocked him, at first, then left him crying for hours. They finally had to sedate him."

"That sounds like Gary, all right," Lois sighed. "What if you just tell them the truth?" she mused. "Not about Gary, but that Geran can't sleep because he thinks something bad happened to the man he saw shot. President Bartlett strikes me as being a *very* loving father, himself, and a man who cares deeply about the welfare of children. Let us talk to him and see what we can do."

"But we can't let Gary know that we're on to him," Bernie warned them. "We'll have to come up with some excuse not to be there when you arrive. Gar will see right through us."

"Don't worry," Lois sighed. "I'll think of *something."*

************


	5. Mistaken Identity

Saturday March 2, The White House - 1130 hrs

Gary was making futile attempts to wrap the fingers of his left hand around a tennis ball when he heard the disturbance in the next room. As the fuzzy yellow sphere rolled out of his hand for the umpteenth time, the door burst open and the agent assigned to guard him that morning jumped to his feet. 

"Gary," Polly Gannon snapped. "Could you tell these . . . gentlemen that we're friends of yours? Preferably before I hurt one of 'em?"

"Again," Jake added with a chuckle. He glanced at the agent entering behind them, who was ruefully rubbing his right wrist. Kneeling next to the chair Gary was seated in, he placed a hand on his cousin's uninjured shoulder. "How goes it, cousin?"

"I've been better," Gary admitted, the corner of his mouth turning up in a tired grin. "Thanks for coming, guys. You, too, Dr. Griner. Have you ever been to the Capitol before?"

"The city, once or twice," William Griner drawled as the guard guided him to another chair. "Never been invited to the White House before. Echoes like a museum. Tell me, Gary. Do you go *anywhere* without leavin' a trail of blood? I went through most of my tour without getting hurt near as much as you've been right here on the home front in the past six months."

Dr. Griner was referring to his tour of duty in Vietnam when he was not much more than a boy. It was there that a failed mission to rescue POWs had cost him his sight. Bitter and at loose ends as to his future, he had finally decided to put his misfortune to work for him, taking the first faltering steps to become a psychiatrist specializing in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Which was how he had met Gary. 

"I thought he was you, at first," the guard smiled, indicating Jake. "Your file never mentioned a brother. Or an uncle, for that matter." He was referring to the fact that Dr. Griner *also* resembled Gary to a remarkable degree, considering the almost sixteen year difference in their ages. 

"Jake's my cousin," Gary corrected him with a dry chuckle. "Dr. Griner might be, but we haven't gotten that far on the family tree, yet. He's my therapist. The lady who almost twisted your arm off is Polly. Didn't anyone tell you they were coming?"

"They must've overlooked that in the briefing," the agent grumbled good-naturedly. "Well, since they made it past Security, and you vouch for them, I guess it's okay." He nodded to the agent positioned in the room, handing over responsibility. Turning to go back to his post in the other room, he paused as his gaze passed over Polly. "Where'd you learn that move?" he asked. "My whole arm went numb!"

"X-ray school," the tech shrugged. "Unruly Patients 101. We had to subdue without causing further damage. I aced that one."

"You mind if I talk to my superiors about you giving a demonstration?" the man asked. "Something like that could come in handy."

"No problem," Polly grinned. "It's mostly the same basic street fighting I learned from my three brothers, but if you think it'll help . . ."

"You can never know enough, in this business," the agent replied as he walked out.

Jake held a seat for Polly before pulling one up for himself. Looking around, he noticed that Lois and Bernie were nowhere in sight. Gary must have understood his puzzled glance, saying that his dad had gone for a stroll over an hour before, and his mother had gone looking for her husband a few minutes ago.

Polly noticed the tennis ball in Gary's lap, as well as the way his left hand just seemed to lay there. 

"How's the arm?" she asked. "Has the feeling come back, yet?"

"Oh, there's loads of feeling," Gary was quick to assure her. "A little too much, if you know what I mean. So, um, so you guys had a nice flight?"

"It was okay," William shrugged. "Never really cared much for flyin', myself. The engines are too noisy and the scenery never changes," he quipped.

"The 'scenery' hasn't changed for you in nigh on thirty-two years, darlin'," Polly chuckled kindly. She patted his arm in a familiar manner, making Gary wonder how well, and how long, the two really knew each other. Polly noticed his raised eyebrow and sly smile. "Get yer mind outta the gutter, son. We've been friends for years. His wife and I went to college together for a while."

This revelation surprised both of the younger men. "Is there anyone you *don't* know?" Jake asked incredulously. "Gary said you'd met Clay long before he came to Chicago. You know every doctor in six different hospitals around the city. I've even heard you've traveled over most of the country, including Alaska."

"That was a temp job," Polly shrugged dismissively. "Had to cover for a fella going to Bangkok on vacation. There's lots o' people I don't know. I've never met a President, yet. And this is the first time I've *ever* set foot in the White House. Now, back to business. Is that tennis ball all the therapy they have you doin'? Diane would have a fit," she grumbled at his desultory nod. "How about massage? Are they at least doin' that?"

"Twice a day," Gary nodded. "And heat packs to keep the muscles limber. The doc thinks there may still be some swelling around the nerve. I seem to be prone to things like that," he grumbled.

"Well, Diane gave me a few tips before we left," the tech nodded. "We'll see if I can help, or if this is one of those things that has to happen in its own time. Like the deal with your legs."

Gary shuddered, his right hand unconsciously going to his wounded shoulder, as he recalled the months spent confined to a wheelchair before finally taking those first faltering steps. It had been one of the worst periods of his life. If not for the support of his family and friends, he seriously doubted that he would have made it.

"And that reminds me," Polly grumbled. "I thought you promised to be more careful. The first I knew you were hurt . . . Well, let's just say that I did *not* enjoy havin' a seizure in front of God an' everybody!"

"Sorry about that," Gary murmured contritely. "Things 've been kinda weird from the get-go on this one."

"That reminds me," Jake chuckled, getting up and heading for the door. "We brought someone else with us, but she stopped off to check out Lincoln's bedroom. Something about 'the aura.' I'd better go see what's keeping her."

Jake's hand was still inches from the door when they heard voices on the other side, followed closely by a muted rapping. Grinning at the close timing, Jake opened the door. A short, stocky woman with light brownish hair came bustling in, followed closely by President Bartlett and Gary's parents. 

"This is the most *amazing* place!" Claire greeted her friend enthusiastically. "It's like being at a spiritual convention! You can't go ten feet without sensing . . . something. Sometimes they're very faint, almost as if they're just reliving fond memories. A few really knock your socks off! How're ya doin', Hobson? Still getting flashes of the future?"

Gary submitted to her restrained embrace with good grace, even managing to return it, somewhat. "It's good to see you, too, Claire," he chuckled. "What are you doing here? I haven't seen you since, what, before last Christmas? How've you been?"

"Great," she replied, flashing Jake a grateful smile as he held a chair for her. "It took a lot of talking on your cousin's part to convince me he isn't you. And he said there are more of you? A set of twins and someone else out west? That is *so* incredible! And . . ."

"W-wait a minute, Claire," Gary murmured, holding up his good hand to cut off her flood of words. He had noticed the confused look on his parents' faces, and the President pointing at Claire's back, mouthing the words, 'Who *is* she?' "Um, Mom, Dad. I'm sure you remember her from the, um, the hospital last year. M-Mr. President. This is Claire. She's, um, sh-she's a psychic. I guess Peter figured she could help w-with the, um, th-the haunting. M-maybe we shoulda told him the situation kinda resolved itself."

"Nonsense," President Bartlett chuckled, extending his hand to the blushing psychic. She had been in such a hurry to find Gary, the clairvoyant had scurried right past him and the Hobsons in the corridor. "I don't think I've ever met a genuine psychic before. How do you do, madam?"

"Oh, my," Claire murmured, her face scarlet. "I should've sensed *something* when I passed you. I am *so* embarrassed! But this place is just *flowing* with energy! It's no wonder someone as sensitive as Gary should have trouble resting here. It's incredible! It's . . ." She broke off suddenly, her face clouding in confusion as she turned back to Gary. "There was something dark here," she murmured. "No. Not one. Two entities. *Very* dark." She hugged herself and shivered, as if feeling a sudden chill. "This man hasn't been dead long. Five, almost six years. And he didn't die here. But he worked here once. 'The soul is a country unto itself.' Does that mean any . . . Gary? Are you all right?"

Gary had lost what little color he had as a chill struck through him to the bone at Claire's words. He swallowed convulsively, looking away as he fought to get his breath. Those words, like everything J.T. Marley had said that day, had been burned into his brain.

"I think we'd better send for the doctor," Jed Bartlett murmured, alarmed at Hobson's sudden pallor. He stepped closer to the stricken man, placing a comforting hand on his arm. The President was aware of Lois and Bernie crowding in from the other side. "What's wrong, Mr. Hobson? Are you in pain?"

"N-not physically," Gary stammered. "No. I-it's okay. J-just, um, just never expected . . . Christ almighty! When is that bastard gonna leave me alone?" he whispered.

"What bastard, son?" Bernie asked anxiously. "Who are you talking about?"

"J.T. Marley," William murmured from his seat. Everyone turned to look at him, taking some of the focus off of Gary, as he had intended. "The man who tried to assassinate your predecessor, Mr. President. Forgive my breech of ethics, Gary, but the man damned near killed you. He has no business messin' up your life, now."

"Oh, my lord," Lois sighed, noticing the other man for the first time. "Another one. Gary, you have *got* to finish that family tree. This is getting *way* beyond weird." 

"I'm getting a little confused," the President murmured. "Are you another relative?"

"S-sorry, Mom. Um, guys, M-Mr. President, my psychiatrist. Dr. William Griner," Gary stammered out by way of introduction. "He's . . . well, he's, um . . ."

"Visually impaired," William drawled laconically as he stood to shake hands with the trio. "So pleased to finally meet ya'll."

"Gary's such a chatterbox," Lois commented dryly, taking his hand. "He's told us absolutely *nothing* about you," she added, giving her son an exasperated glance. 

Gary didn't notice. His eyes were still staring out at nothing, his right hand rubbing his wounded shoulder as his mind whirled around the events of that fateful day. 'You're a traitor,' he'd said to Marley. 'A man without a country.' To which Marley had replied, 'The soul is a country unto itself.' 'But you don't have a soul,' Gary had countered, trying desperately to distract the killer from his bloody purpose. 'If I need one, I borrow one,' Marley had said with a negligent shrug. 

As he had tried to borrow, no, steal; Marley had been trying to steal Gary's soul that day. To frame him, posthumously, for the murder of the President, as well as the murder of the real Agent Dobbs whose body was concealed under plastic sheeting just a few feet away. If not for the timely arrival of the Chicago PD, Marley would've succeeded in his nefarious purpose. Instead, he had fallen dead at Gary's feet, providing ample fodder for years of sleepless nights.

"H-he came back," Gary murmured numbly. His mud puddle green eyes continued to stare into the middle distance. "The bastard wasn't satisfied with almost killing me. He still wants to finish the job. His son failed, so he came back to do it himself." He looked up into a ring of concerned faces. Only the President and the Secret Service agent showed any signs of disbelief. "Can *you* explain it, then?" he challenged them. "What tore this room up yesterday? Wh-what was it that made me so weak I-I could barely *breathe* when I was supposed to be getting better? A-and how did I recover so quickly after it was over?" He looked directly at Claire, his eyes frightened. *"Is* it over? Could he still be here?"

"No," she assured him, her voice gentle, but confident. *"Something,* some more powerful force, drove him away. You said something tore the room up?" Claire watched his face carefully, not liking what she saw. Gary was almost in shock. "That was most likely him pitching a fit because he couldn't have his way. Like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum. He's gone from here, Hobson. Completely and utterly vanished. All that's left is a sort of . . . residue. Like the aftertaste left behind when you throw up. Nauseating, but harmless."

"Didn't feel so harmless yesterday," Gary shuddered. "I could actually feel myself getting weaker. I-it was so hard to stay awake. Then, all hell broke loose, a-and there was glass everywhere . . ." His voice broke off as his eyes sought, and found, his Dad. "You never said, Dad. How bad were you hurt? Wh-when you were . . . were shielding me, I could hear things hitting you. Did I thank you for protecting me?"

"Yes, you did," Bernie replied with a rueful grin. He should've known Gary would remember *that,* if nothing else. "The doc took me for x-rays. Nothing broken, but my back is gonna be pretty colorful for a while."

"Sorry 'bout that," Gary murmured in apology. "You guys might be safer if I go some . . ."

"You finish that thought, young man," Lois growled, "and wounded or not, I will take you over my knee. Don't you even *hint* at going off on your own! We're in this as a *family,* whether you like it or not." Her words were backed with a chorus of 'Here, here!' in which even the President and the anonymous Secret Service agent joined in. William had resumed his seat with a sly smile.

Gary opened his mouth to protest, not wanting his family or friends to risk injury for his sake, only to be distracted by the arrival of a familiar orange fur ball. The omniscient tabby jumped up into his lap, rearing up and placing its paws on Gary's chest. The cat brought his face close to the human's and meowed loudly. 

"Great," Gary grumbled, rubbing the striped head and breaking into a tired grin. "Even the cat is against me. I guess I'm out voted. So, um, wh-what's for lunch?"

************

"You have a hell of a support system, Gary," William commented with a dry chuckle as he settled back in his chair. It was an hour later. They had all enjoyed a hot lunch, which, to Gary's delight, included soup, vegetables, and meat that his mother had to cut up for him. It was cooked almost tender enough to cut with his fork, and delicious. Besides he *really* didn't mind the extra attention. The others had then pleaded other business, leaving the two alone for a much needed therapy session. "It's not many people who'd take on the kind of danger you're in right now."

"You did," Gary pointed out, looking around. At his insistence, there was no recording equipment in evidence. "You're here, too. Like it or not, your resemblance to me puts you and Jake in just as much danger as I'm in. If Buddy and Clay were here, the same would go for them. Last year, well, I got a taste of what a case of mistaken identity could lead to. A convict on death row in Montana managed to reach all the way down to Texas and almost killed *me,* thinking I was Clay. Three times," he added ruefully. "I'm beginning to feel like the center of a bull's eye."

"And you once more encountered the paranormal," William nodded. "I do remember you tellin' me about that when you got back. How did that incident resolve itself? Did you ever find that saddle?"

"Yeah!" Gary chuckled. "That's why I missed our appointment last month. I was in the hospital with pneumonia and smoke inhalation after, well, it was a busy day." He quickly told of discovering the missing Civil War saddle in a private collection that was being threatened by a fire. The owner and his family had been so grateful to Gary, they had given him the McClellan saddle. 

"And this picture Jake was tellin' me about was inside?" William murmured incredulously.

"Yes," Gary nodded. "In a secret compartment. They had it in a box made of teak, and packed with cotton so tight, no one ever suspected it was there. I guess it also protected everything against dryness and humidity, because they were perfectly preserved. Now I'm fielding offers from both the Smithsonian and the White House. Secretly, I think that's one of the reason's they wanna keep me alive," he chuckled dryly. "I'll never sell that photo. It's too important to me. I might loan it out for display, from time to time, though."

"Let's talk about why you're here, in the first place," William suggested, changing the subject. "Tell me how that came about,"

Hesitantly, unsure how much he could safely reveal to the analyst without sounding too crazy, Gary told of meeting the two NSA agents. He then related the events leading up to his hurried flight to the Capitol city. His voice broke a few times as he described the kidnapping, the brutal torture at the hands of his old enemy's son, and the timely rescue by the two agents. He faltered over the voice, and the vision, at the train station, still a little unsure if it had been real, or a delusion brought on by his recent ordeal and his own failing strength.

"You think you were looking for excuses?" William asked. "In case you failed?"

"P-pretty much," Gary murmured, looking down at his useless hand. "I mean, I was in a little over my head, wouldn't you say? A-and here was this voice telling me I was *meant* to fail, this time. Th-that I was practically ordered to."

"But you went on," William observed kindly. "Even in the face of that, you put everything you had into stoppin' those trains from collidin'. That took remarkable courage, Gary. Did you see yourself as defyin' God?"

"No," Gary stated firmly, his voice conveying his conviction. "I can't see God wanting something like that to happen. I just can't. I mean, why let me know about it ahead of time if he didn't want it stopped? God doesn't work that way. Not the God I was taught to believe in. When it was over, this . . . person . . . she was angry. Not just at me, though. At herself, too. Like *she* was the one who'd failed." He rubbed his right hand against his left arm, chilled by the flaccid feel of the muscles. "We, um, we thought it was all over, then. The express was almost a mile down the track, already. The Vice President's train was safely out of the way, and the . . ." He paused to lick suddenly dry lips. "The only people . . . dead," he murmured, "were some of the men behind it. O-one of them died at the warehouse. I, um, I-I felt his . . . It was just like b-before. With Savalas. I could s-see the look . . . on his face. F-feel his heart . . . stop." Gary paused, wiping at the tears trickling down his cheeks, as he looked away, ashamed of this show of weakness.

"The man was holding you against your will, Gary," William murmured, leaning forward in his seat. "He was one of the people who were torturin' you, intent on killin' you. You have no guilt in his death, or in any of the others who died that day. *You* were more of a victim than they were!"

"That doesn't make them any less dead, does it?" Gary asked when he at last found his voice. "It doesn't absolve me . . . of what I saw, or in being relieved . . . that it was them instead of me."

"It's called survivor's guilt," William sighed, sitting back in his chair. "I see it almost every day. You're human, Gary. Accept that. No matter how many lives you save, there's always gonna be those you can't get to in time, or who can't be deterred from their chosen actions, or who just don't want to be saved. Leave matters of guilt or innocence to the courts. Or to God. Just go on doin' the best you can. It's all you can do."

"I-I guess you're right," Gary nodded with a shuddering sigh. "But it's hard. Dear Lord, it's hard. A-anyway, we thought it was all over, that everyone was safe. Then . . . I was shot. I don't think I even heard it, this time. Just felt this . . . like being hit with the world's biggest fist. I remember staggering, and grabbing onto something, Parker's arm, I think. Then I was on the ground, and he was trying to keep my back off the gravel. I think he tore off another piece of my shirt. It was getting kinda ragged by then. Not much left of it."

"And that was when your old girlfriend showed up," Dr. Griner prompted. This was the part that he sensed was really eating at Gary. 

"Yeah," the injured man murmured softly. "M-Meredith. She's, um, she's a reporter. A member of the Press Corps. I-it kinda threw me, at first. I guess I was hurtin' too bad to think straight. And I was starting to blackout. Th-things were getting . . . fuzzy. Th-then this . . . this little boy came . . . H-he called her . . . called her 'Mommy.' He looked right at me, a-and I could see his eyes. My eyes," he whispered. "M-my son . . . has . . . my eyes."

And there it was, William thought with a mental sigh. All of Gary's dreams tied up in one neat little package. A package that he dare not open. Moving carefully, William eased out of his chair and groped his way over to the quietly sobbing man. He knelt in front of Gary's seat and gently pulled him forward, forcing the patient to lean on his doctor for support. Both physically and emotionally. Gary finally laid his head on Dr. Griner's shoulder, his good arm encircling the broad back as he gave vent to his overwhelming pain and grief.

************

"He's resting, now," William informed the small group seated in the antechamber of the Oval Office a few minutes later. Charlie, the President's aide, guided him to a seat. "This whole experience has been pushin' the limits for 'im. Not that that hasn't happened before."

"From what everyone's been telling me," Vice President Hoynes murmured, "his limits are constantly expanding. With everything he's gone through, lately, I'd be a basket case!"

"Amen," President Bartlett agreed. "It's absolutely incredible that this young man hasn't come to our attention before!"

"Gary avoids publicity as much as possible," Lois sighed. "He feels that he wasn't given this 'gift,' whatever it is, for that purpose. And this isn't the first time it's put his life in danger."

"Lately," Bernie sighed, "he's managed to attract all the *wrong* attention. This Marley character, for one. That Neff fella out west, for another. When we got the word that Jaggs Neff had been taken back to Montana and executed, Gary, well, he didn't know *what* to feel. He was in the hospital at the time. Yeah, yeah. I know. Big surprise. Anyway, he was in there for pneumonia, this time. It was right after that guy gave Gary the Civil War saddle and he found the medal and that picture. The twins called and said they had gone to witness the execution. Clay said that, when Neff saw them, he went ballistic. Screamin' and yellin' that he'd haunt them for the rest of their lives. That he'd come back from the grave to get even."

"That's all you need," President Bartlett snorted. "A ghost haunting all four of you."

"Except that Gary will be the only one of us who could see him," Jake spoke up. "Which is kinda unfair, if you think about it. I mean, how can we help him if we don't know what he's going through?"

"Trust me," Claire sighed. "You don't *want* to know. Hobson's going through something that I've only just skimmed the surface of. You can study this stuff for a lifetime, and still not know everything there is to know. Hobson . . . he seems to live in uncharted territory."

"So, how did he take the news of Neff's execution?" Jake asked. "I took Joanie out, that night and, well, we didn't exactly celebrate, but I can't say I'm sorry he's gone."

"He brooded about it for days," Lois sighed. "He felt sorry for Neff, I think. You know, you can't help wondering what makes a person so twisted that they can do the kind of horrible things that Neff did to my son. Someone like Gary, well, he feels that no one is beyond hope of redemption. To run up against monsters like Neff and the Marleys, it . . . it shakes up the very foundations of his faith in humanity."

"Speaking of Marley," the President murmured. "My head of security got a call from the District Police Department today. They want to send a man over to talk with your son. See if he's remembered anything more that could be helpful."

"I doubt it," Bernie sighed. "From what Gary told *us,"* he added, waving a hand to include Lois and himself, "Marley was the one asking all the questions. And he wasn't goin' out of his way to be nice about it, either."

*********

Lois went in to check on Gary after everyone else had scattered in pursuit of other diversions. She found him sleeping peacefully, the cat snuggled up against his injured shoulder. Ever since the orange feline had started sleeping close to Gary, his sleep had been much more restful, for which Lois was thankful. Her son had enough to worry about when he was awake.

Pulling a chair up next to the bed, she couldn't resist the urge to brush a lock of his thick, dark hair from his forehead. Gary turned his face into the cup of her palm, murmuring inaudibly. Lois stroked his cheek in a gesture so familiar, it brought tears to her eyes. She wondered what was going through his mind. Was he dreaming about Geran? Was he aching to hold his child as she and Bernie had held him? Thinking back, she marveled anew at the existence of the grandchild she had craved for so long. It had been so wonderful to take him in her arms and hold him close, to feel the flutter of his tiny heart, beating against hers. To marvel at how closely he resembled his father, even to the tiny birthmark just below his right sideburn. 

From what Meredith had said, Gary had been given only that one brief glimpse, just before he had passed out at the train station. Did he know just how much like his father the child really was? Had he heard those clear, childish tones as the little boy spoke with his father's voice? A voice Lois still carried in her fondest memories of Gary at that age. Did he dream, as she did, of taking Geran to ballgames, on picnics? Did he wonder what it would be like to walk his son to school for the first time? Did Gary feel cheated of having heard his child speak his first words, take his first faltering steps? Was it eating away at his heart, not having been given the chance to hold his child moments after he was born? Would he ever know that joy? Would he even allow himself to dwell on these missed opportunities, or would he block them from his mind, as he often did with subjects too painful to deal with?

The cat reached over and patted her hand in an oddly comforting gesture, looking up at her with half-open, golden orbs. He purred deep in his tiny chest, as if to let her know that Gary was being well looked after. Lois stroked that orange head, marveling at the intelligence in those heavy-lidded eyes. There were times she hated what the cat represented, what Gary had gone through on behalf of the forces behind the Paper. Still, she found herself grateful for whatever peace the purring tabby could bring him.

He'd had so little, of late.

***********

Dimly, Gary could hear the sounds of music and laughter. Somewhere in the floor below his room, there was a party going on. A gala, actually. The Vice President and his wife had decided that Lois and Bernie should be included in the festivities, even to the extent of providing them with appropriate attire. It pleased Gary to no end that his parents were receiving such special treatment. They had endured so much on his behalf, and this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. It didn't bother him, in the least, that he was, as yet, unable to attend such an event. Mixing and mingling was not his forte. The promised dinner with the President, Vice President, and their families was more his speed. Gary hadn't gotten out much in the last few years. 

He listened to the distant sounds of merriment, imagining that he could make out his mother's tinkling laugh. She had a wonderful laugh that he had missed when he first left home. And was that his dad's guffaw? Pleased, Gary snuggled deeper into his pillow as the morphine kicked in and he drifted back to sleep. 

The cat, its tiny orange body curled tightly against the human it served as both guide and protector, raised its head and uttered a low growl. The Special Agent, who had been stretched out on the cot near the French doors, leapt to his feet instantly. His hand automatically went to the pistol grip protruding from his shoulder holster. His first instinct was to check the door to the adjoining room, and then he noticed the cat's glowing eyes were aimed in his direction. Puzzled, he turned to look over his shoulder, at the doors leading to the balcony. Could someone have gotten past security and penetrated that far? Listening intently, he silently placed one hand on the door handle, careful not to rattle it. 

The handle slowly moved under his hand. Not much, just enough so that he was sure of what he felt. Slowly drawing his gun and holding it close to his ear, he eased the hammer back. He waited, sure that an attack of some kind was imminent. 

"I've got movement on the balcony," he whispered into his radio. The microphone was sensitive enough to pick up even that faint sound. His first instinct was to fling open the doors and corner the suspect. His duty, however, was to stay by Hobson's side and defend the sedated man. With his life, if necessary.

"We copy," came the muted reply in his earpiece. "We'll check it out. Hold your position."

Almost in the same instant, there came the sound of running feet, followed immediately by others as his fellow agents gave pursuit. Edward Chisholm held his place until the word came that the intruder had escaped over the north wall. Easing the hammer back from the cocked position, he returned his gun to its holster. The danger was past. For tonight, at least. He turned back to study his peacefully sleeping charge, thankful that nothing more had come of the incident. At the same time, he regretted that they had been unable to apprehend the would-be assailant.

Just what kind of man attracted such animosity, he wondered? From what he had learned of Hobson, both from his file and from Meredith, he was not the type to go out of his way to irritate people. 

So, how did such a nice guy end up in such a mess?

**********

Sunday March 3, The White House - 0700 hrs

Gary awakened to quiet, for once, the orange tabby plucking at his covers with a single claw. Carefully turning onto his right side, Gary peered out the French doors to see bright sunshine pouring in through the sheer curtains. It looked like a beautiful spring morning. A shame to have to spend it indoors, he mused. He noticed that his guard of the previous night was absent, and another had already taken his place. The man was reading a newspaper as he sipped at a cup of coffee. Gary felt a momentary surge of panic as he scooted up in bed. Was that *his* Paper?

"Um, s'cuse me," he murmured, catching the agent's attention. "I-is that *today's* paper?"

"Yes, it is," the man nodded. "Picked it up on my way to work. Did you want to read it? I'm through with the front page."

"Y-yes, please," Gary stammered, suppressing a sigh of relief. The cat must've left *The* Paper with his parents. Gratefully accepting the periodical, he skimmed over the headlines. So far, his name had yet to find its way into print. A fact for which Gary was profoundly thankful! Satisfied, he gave the pages back to the anonymous guard and settled back for a few more minutes of sleep.

"Well, look who's awake!" Lois greeted him an hour later as she held the door open for the waiter pushing the breakfast cart. "How do you feel, sweetie? Did you sleep well?"

"Slept fine, Mom," Gary murmured drowsily. He rolled back over and awkwardly scooted himself up in bed. The smells coming from the covered tray already had his mouth watering. "Do I smell bacon?"

"And a cheese omelet," his dad chuckled. He entered two steps behind the waiter, both hands stuffed in his pockets as he strolled into the room. "We even have some Fancy Feast for the fur-ball." He stepped over to the bed and picked up the purring feline. "Hey, buddy. You like chicken? You *look* like the chicken type."

"Chicken's his favorite," Gary confirmed with a sleepy smile. "Mornin', Dad. Mom. How was dinner with the President last night?"

"Just *wonderful,"* Lois smiled wistfully, her mind drifting back to the gala scene. "Your father looked so *very* handsome in his tuxedo."

"You didn't look too shabby, yourself, in that dark green satin number," Bernie reminded her with a sly smile. "Made me jealous, the way all those guys were fawning all over you."

"Wish I'd 've been there to see it," Gary chuckled. He thanked the waiter, as the tray was set across his lap. "You two don't dress up very often. Have you had breakfast, yet? Y-you could join me, if you haven't. There's plenty here." He was pleased that his parents were having such a good time. They had spent so much of the last few years worrying about him; he felt fresh pangs of guilt every time he took a risk of any kind. Still, he saw no other way around his responsibilities to the Paper. "You'd think this was my last meal, the way they've loaded this tray." He paused, his hand hovering over the fork, and gave his mother a sideways grin. "Y-you guys aren't holding back anything, are you?"

"Whatever makes you think that, hon?" Lois asked as she adjusted the pillow behind his back. She gave the abundance of food a quick glance. "Oh my. They *did* sort of pile it on, didn't they? Bernie, see if they left a couple of extra plates on that cart. There's enough food here for all three of us, *plus* some! There's pancakes, French toast, and . . . there must be some mistake. You're still on a bland diet. You shouldn't . . . Gary! Put down that sausage!"

Gary popped the sausage link into his mouth before she could stop him. He paused in mid-chew, closing his eyes and heaving a sigh of purest bliss before finishing. He then gave his mom a mischievous grin. 

"You're in a good mood this morning," his dad observed, pulling up a chair and helping himself to a couple of the pancakes and some sausage. "You must've slept pretty good. No nightmares?"

"Um-mm," Gary replied around a mouthful of omelet. "It's weird, but for the last couple of nights I've been sleeping pretty good. Started to have a doozy of a dream the other night, a real Stephen King film fest. Then . . . I don't seem to remember any more dreams at all. Just a feeling of . . . peace, I guess you'd call it. Whatever's behind it, I'm not complaining. I really needed the rest. Hey, Dad. Try some of this omelet. It's great. You, too, Mom. This thing is a monster."

He quickly divided the huge omelet into thirds and tried to serve it up one-handed, only to have his mom take over when he almost dropped the plate. For the next few minutes, the three of them enjoyed this brief respite from the series of traumas that had become Gary's life. For Bernie and Lois, it was a welcome change to see Gary smiling and joking with them. He had always been so serious, even as a child. Moments of real joy, for him, had been few and far between. Lois found it hard to remember the last time she had heard him laugh. Not just a nervous chuckle, but a real, from the heart, guffaw. For this one, precious moment she would always be grateful to President Bartlett and his staff. They had, in her opinion, gone out of their way to make them feel welcome and to look after Gary's welfare, in particular.

"If nobody minds," Gary said, taking a sip of his coffee, "I'd like to walk around outside for a little while. You know, tour the rose garden, maybe. It just looks like too pretty of a day to be cooped up. Besides, I need to stretch my legs some, or I'll forget how to walk more than ten feet at a time. Do . . . do you realize I haven't been anywhere but the bathroom since I've been here? And this is the *White House!"*

Lois and Bernie exchanged contemplative looks. Speaking in that special ESP that only people who have lived most of their lives together could share, they came to an agreement.

"We think it's a wonderful idea," Lois told him. "You've been looking much too pale."

"A little time in the sun might be just the thing to put some color in your cheeks," Bernie nodded. "Maybe Dr. Griner or some of the others might like to join you. Your Mom and I, well, we like it better by moonlight."

Gary shot his parents a startled look, amused by the slow flush crawling up his mother's cheeks. Bernie was looking a little 'rosy,' too. Gary fought to suppress a big, sly grin as he pictured his parents strolling hand-in-hand down a moonlit path, surrounded by the smell of roses in bloom. Of course, it was too early in the year for them to actually be blooming. Still, it was a nice picture. He ducked his head, suddenly *very* interested in a piece of French toast.

"So, um," he murmured, trying hard not to smile, "you guys're, um, enjoying your stay? Keeping busy?" 

"Oh. Yes." Lois replied, nodding vigorously. "Very, um, very busy. Th-there's so *much* to do here! There're the, um, the museums, and the theater."

"The parks and the monuments," Bernie added, a little too quickly.

"Historic tours," Lois hurried to add. "And the zoo! Oh, the zoo was wonderful! You'd *love* the zoo, Gary!"

"Whoa!" Gary held up his good hand, a big grin splitting his handsome features as he tried to curb their 'enthusiasm.' "I'm only talking about a few minutes of fresh air! We'll save the grand tour for when I'm a little steadier on my feet, okay?" 

"You're right, dear," Lois giggled, blushing a little. Nowhere near as red as she had been a moment before, though. "Still, you shouldn't be alone. And I don't mean a squadron of Special Agents walking four paces on either side of you. Someone you can talk to, at least. Claire, maybe. Or that Ms. Gannon. She's a little strange, but I kind of like her."

"Claire and Polly are planning a tour of haunted houses this morning," Gary chuckled. He pushed his plate aside with a satisfied sigh. "Dr. Griner is expecting a friend to drop by today. Some teammate from his old unit. So, I guess it's Jake and me, then. Do you think he'd like that? Escorting his poor, decrepit cousin on a morning stroll?"

"Oh, he is in a jolly mood," Bernie chuckled to his wife. "I'll ask 'im. The two of you haven't had much time to really get to know each other. That vacation you four took last year, it didn't exactly turn into the 'bonding' experience you guys were looking for."

Recalling that ill-fated trip with a shudder, Gary had to agree.

******

The dark-clad figure silently emerged from his shadowy concealment. It had taken a substantial bribe to coerce a low-level intern into smuggling them onto the premises the day before, and they were still nowhere near their goal. If not for the sudden appearance of half a dozen bodyguards just as he had reached Hobson's balcony, it would all be over. Whatever insight into the future the young Chicagoan possessed would have died with him in a single, well-placed shot. It had taken some fancy footwork to elude his pursuers and convince them that both he *and* his co-conspirator had fled over the north wall. Now, it was up to him. He would have to pick his chance carefully. One was all he was likely to get. Hobson had yet to leave his room, so his best bet was to try to get into a position for a long shot through the French doors. The doors overlooking the rose garden.

*********

Jake helped Gary descend the broad staircase leading to the first floor. It was the first time the young barkeep had been out of his room since awakening there almost a week before. It was also the first time he had tried to walk more than twenty feet since his initial ordeal. If not for Jake's arm to steady him, he doubted that he would've made it down the stairs in one piece.

"You know," Jake murmured as they neared the last step, "I've heard rumors that there's an elevator around here somewhere."

"Good thing, too," Gary huffed as he clung to the railing. "I don't know if I can climb this monster on the way back." He was dressed in his usual jeans and flannel shirt. His mother had brought him one of a solid hickory color, saying that he needed a change of pace. Which made Gary wonder what the color of his shirt had to do with anything. Still, it was clean, warm, and comfortable. What more could he ask? Especially as his mother had thrown a tan jacket about his shoulders, to ward off the cold. 

They finally made it to the entrance to the rose garden, where Jake guided his cousin to a nearby wrought iron bench. Gary eased onto the metal seat and leaned back with a grateful sigh.

"M-maybe this wasn't such a good idea," he murmured tiredly. "I had no idea I was this weak!"

"You lost a lot of blood, Gary," Jake reminded him as he, too, took a seat. "Plus whatever happened the day before we got here. Which, they tell me, was straight from a Spielberg movie. And you haven't been in the best shape to begin with, lately. I've heard that the effects of pneumonia can hang in there for quite a while. And how's your back doing these days?"

"Okay!" Gary grumbled good-naturedly. "I get the picture. I shouldn't go out for the 'Iron Man Triathlon' anytime soon. Still, it's nice to get outside, y'know? I'm beginning to feel like a hothouse flower. So many people," he added, waving a hand at the hovering Special Agent standing on alert just a few feet away, "watching my every move. Almost like they're afraid I'll faint if someone sneezes. It's not like it's the first time I've been . . . What are you laughing about?"

"You were about to say it's not . . . not the first time you've been hurt," Jake chuckled. "That has to be *the* understatement of a lifetime! Gary, from what I've heard, you almost ended up in a casket half a dozen times in the past coupla years *alone!* At least twice since *I've* known you! Aren't you a little young, yet, for a midlife crisis?"

"The way you describe it," Gary snorted, "it sounds more like an *'end* of life' crisis. Honestly, I'm not *trying* to get myself killed. I-it, well, it's complicated."

"So uncomplicate it," Jake suggested. "Figure out what's got your life so screwed up and change it."

**********

The assassin couldn't believe his luck. There was his target, leaning on the arm of another man whose face was turned so that it was hard to make out his features. They were followed by a guard who stayed no more than four paces behind. The man in the suit helped the target onto a bench, and then sat down to his right. Only then did the sniper get a good look at the other man. Stunned, he rubbed at his eyes. Two of them! Which one *was* his target?

**********

"It's not that simple," Gary sighed, shaking his head sadly. "The thing that screws it up the most is the same thing that gives it meaning. That makes me feel that I actually matter in the grand scheme of things. Pathetic, isn't it?"

Jake let his breath out in a 'whoosh' of sympathy as he patted Gary's good shoulder. "Yeah," he sighed. "That *is* pathetic. Not exactly what you had in mind when you left home for the first time, I take it."

"You take it right," Gary agreed miserably. He looked up at a robin hopping around on the branch of a nearby tree. "I had all the same dreams of most guys our age. Finding the love of my life, making a home, a family. That sorta thing. I thought I had it . . . then . . . it was gone. Poof! I was alone again. Since then . . . well, my life hasn't exactly been stable enough to make me a good catch."

"So now you're a poor fish," Jake nodded. "Swimming all alone in his tiny pond."

***********

He had to make a decision. Quickly. His window of opportunity was growing narrower by the second. If he couldn't choose one, he'd have to take out both of them. Carefully, he lined up his shot. The one with the sling. *He* was the most likely target.

***********

With a derisive snort, Gary leaned forward and shot his cousin an amused look. "Does *this,"* he asked, waving his good hand at their surroundings, "look like a 'small pond' to you?"

Whatever Jake was going to say in reply was cut off as the young banker gave a startled cry, clutching at his left arm! Without thinking, Gary dragged him off the bench and pushed him behind a tree, keeping himself between his cousin and any further gunfire. At almost the same instant, the Secret Service agent had moved to cover Gary, who had yet to even hear the shot.

"Jesus Christ!" Jake hissed through clenched teeth, his right hand clasped tightly over the bloody wound. "This hurts!"

"Like I don't know that?" Gary murmured. "Be still. That bastard's still out there."

"Not for long," the agent remarked, indicating the teams of suited men closing in from each side. "He's gone or he's toast. I'm voting for toast."

"You've got my vote," Jake grunted in agreement. "I can't believe I've been shot! Man, Joanie's gonna have a fit!" 

"Let me explain it to her," Gary suggested, ducking instinctively as more shots rang out. "She'll see you as the 'conquering hero,' when I'm through." He cried out, falling back, as pain seared along his left side. "Christ almighty! Do these guys hate 'lefties' or something?" He looked down as blood welled from a deep furrow that followed his lower ribs. "Man, this is getting old," he groaned, plucking at his bloody shirt with his good hand. "Mom just bought this shirt, yesterday."

Less than five minutes later it was all over. The shooter was cornered and chose to go down fighting in a fanatical, and useless gesture. As soon as it was safe, both cousins were hustled back into Gary's room and the doctor summoned. Gary insisted that he look at Jake first, since this was a new experience for the banker.

The bullet had pierced the muscle of Jake's upper arm, but had missed the bone, Dr. Michaels happily reported. He numbed and sutured the wounds, wrapping it all in a pressure bandage, then gave Jake a hefty shot of antibiotics, and some pills for the pain. Then it was Gary's turn. 

"Well," he sighed, "we don't need x-rays to see that no ribs are broken. I can see them just fine. You might as well settle back, Mr. Hobson. This may take awhile."

"Wonderful," Gary murmured. "Just what I need. Good thing I'm already full of antibiotics from the last one. Saves me at least one . . . what's that for?"

"You don't get off that easy," Dr. Michaels chuckled as he filled the second syringe. "You got exposed to a whole new set of bacteria, so you get a whole new range of meds. This first one is to numb the wound. The second is to stave off infection."

"You're enjoying this," Gary accused the physician. 

"Not in the least," the doctor grinned as he tapped the syringe to clear out trapped air bubbles. "This won't hurt . . . much."

What Gary had to say at that point is best left to the imagination.

***********

"Boy," Jake murmured an hour later, sitting in the lobby with Polly, Claire, and William after they had returned from their outings. "It's a good thing his parents weren't there. I don't think he learned that kinda language from them! Wow!" He adjusted his arm in the sling the doctor had insisted he use, trying to find a comfortable position. "Of course, if his hurts as bad as mine, I can't say that I blame 'im."

"Gary's been through this a lot more than you have," Polly reminded him, rubbing absently at her left ribs. "Hell, a lot more than *anyone* has! Hopefully, this will be your first, and last GSW. That's medical shorthand for gunshot wound, in case ya'll were wonderin'. I imagine he's a might perturbed at being laid up for so long, then getting set back almost to square one. He wants to go home, and he can't while that Marley character is on the loose. Granted, this is one of the classiest places you could wish for, but, if you can't leave when you want to, it's still a prison."

William merely nodded as he listened to the others discuss Gary's situation. They all knew that all they had to do to be free was walk out the front door, climb into a limousine, and ride to the nearest airport. Marley knew nothing of them, or where they lived. He knew way too much about Gary's whereabouts and activities. That, as much as anything else, had to be wearing his patience pretty thin. Add to it the burden of keeping his son a secret from everyone involved, it was no wonder that his temper might be getting a little frayed.

"I think, maybe, Gary's feeling a mite guilty," the psychiatrist sighed. "He feels that *your* injuries are *his* fault. Whether because of your resemblance or proximity to him at the time, he probably feels that it should've been him, rather than you."

"You've pretty much nailed it, I think," Claire chuckled. "That display of temper you saw, Jake, was aimed more at himself, than anyone else. So, how does it feel to be among the walking wounded, Evans?"

"To tell the truth," Jake replied with a pained grimace, "I thought Gary expressed himself very well, back there. For both of us. Well," he sighed, pushing himself to his feet, "I've gotta find a phone and some privacy. I promised to let Joanie know how Gary was doing, and what the President was really like in person. Oh, and don't let me forget pictures! If I go home without at *least* four rolls of film, she'll think something was wrong!"

"Jake," William chuckled, "you've been shot. She might excuse you a coupla rolls."

"I'm sure she will," Jake grinned as he headed for the door. "Otherwise I'd need six. Catch you later, guys."

**********

Half an hour later, Jake had finished his call home and had decided to check in on Gary. He got turned around a couple of times, but finally found himself headed down the right corridor. At least, it *looked* like the right one. He was just passing one of the broad staircases when a pretty, auburn-haired woman came up, leading a small boy by the hand. The boy took one look at Jake and let out a squeal of delight! Before Jake could blink twice, the child had both his little arms wrapped around the young banker's legs! Stunned and embarrassed, he gave the woman a puzzled smile, trying to gently disengage the little boy.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you up and around," the woman sighed. "Ever since my son, Geran, saw you at the station, he's been worried sick that you'd died!" She wrapped her arms around Jake's neck, pulling him close. "I still haven't told him," she whispered. "He doesn't know that you're his . . . that we . . . h-he's too young to understand." Releasing her hold, the woman stepped back, brushing back a stray curl. "I-it's so nice of you to take the time to reassure him that you're okay," she stammered nervously, and a little louder than necessary.

"My daddy was 'tecting you last night," the little boy piped up, stepping back to look up at the much taller man. "Did you see 'im? Was he brave?"

Smiling uncertainly, Jake knelt before the proud, and inquisitive child. Getting a good look at the boy for the first time, Jake was instantly struck by the resemblance to himself, as he must have looked at that age. The clear, intelligent eyes were exactly the same as those he saw in his shaving mirror each morning. There was even a tiny birthmark . . . Suddenly, he knew whose child this was. Whose son it *had* to be.

"Yes, Geran," he said seriously, ignoring the pain in his arm and wrapping the boy in a fierce embrace. "I saw your daddy, and he was *very* brave!"

*************

It was a much-subdued Jake Evans who knocked on Gary's door an hour later. After his brief, but significant encounter in the hallway, he wasn't sure what to say to his cousin. He knew how important family was to Gary, how badly he wanted a wife and child of his own. To know that he, in fact, had a child, a son that he could never see . . . it was heartbreaking. Should he tell his cousin that he knew, Jake wondered? Was it even his business to intrude? Meredith. She had finally named herself when he professed his ignorance. She clearly believed that he knew her, but was putting on an act for the boy's sake. From what he had gathered from Meredith, Gary knew about his son, Geran, but had only seen him the one time, at a distance. He had never felt the warmth of his child's embrace, never seen how his face glowed when he smiled. Never heard him say 'daddy,' even knowing that it was for someone else. How could he stand it? 

No wonder he'd been such a grouch, lately! The bullet wounds couldn't hurt *half* as much as this!

Not getting an answer, he tentatively knocked again. A second later, he heard footsteps, and then the door swung open. The same Special Agent who had been guarding Gary late last night looked him over before finally letting him in. He was a tall, slender, dark-haired man, not quite Gary and Jake's height, but close. 

"C'mon in, Jake," Gary greeted him. He was seated in one of the wingback chairs near a small table, reading. Since finally getting to walk around a little, he was determined not to spend any more time in bed than he was forced to. At least he could look out the window, on occasion. He marked his place and set the book on the table. Not an easy task with just one functioning hand. "Are you okay?" he asked. "That arm still bothering you?"

"No worse than a broken toe," Jake grinned. "What about you? How many stitches did you end up with?"

"You don't wanna know," Gary sighed. "I need to buy stock in the company that makes these suture kits. It's the only way I'll get anything back." He studied his cousin's face, evidently concerned by what he saw. *"Something's* bothering you. Wanna talk about it?" he asked, indicating the other chair. 

The young banker gingerly sat down, perched on the edge of his seat. He still hadn't figured out how to approach the subject. Especially with an audience, although he was sure the agent could be counted on for his discretion. Finally, he decided to give it his best shot.

"On my way back here," he murmured, "a-after calling my girl, J-Joanie, I, um . . . There was this . . . this woman coming up the stairs. Sh-she had this kid with her. Cute little guy. A-a real charmer. A-anyway, she . . . she thought I was . . . you."

Jake had often heard the expression 'white as a sheet.' He had never before seen anyone who actually fit that description . . . until now. Gary slumped back in his chair, breathless, looking as if every drop of blood had been drained from his body. His eyes had taken on a dazed, glassy look. For a moment, Jake thought he was going into shock. The stricken man swallowed convulsively, trying to work up enough energy to speak. 

"Wh-what did she tell you?" he asked in a choked whisper.

"Nothing directly," Jake answered truthfully. "She obviously didn't want the boy to know that you're . . ."

Gary jumped up from the chair, cutting Jake off in mid-sentence. He staggered a moment, as pain shot through his side, then began to pace frantically about the room as words spilled out of him in a rush.

"Don't go there, Jake," he pleaded, his voice harsh and raspy. He flickered a glance toward the guard that bordered on panic. "J-just . . . don't. This is one can of worms you *don't* wanna fish with!"

"Why not?" the banker asked, honestly confused. "My God! You have a *son,* Gary! If it were me I'd be crowing from the rooftops!"

"But I'm not you!" Gary snapped. "I-it's not that simple with me!" He ran his right hand through his hair nervously as he continued to pace. "Y-you don't understand!" he moaned.

"What's to understand?" Jake persisted. "You're a father! I'd think you'd be so proud we'd have to hose you down!"

"But I'm *not!"* Gary hissed angrily, his voice tight with emotion. "I-I'm not his father! There's a lot more to . . . to being a father than one lousy sperm with a sense of direction! *I wasn't there for him!"* he elaborated, gesticulating wildly with his good hand. "Not when he was born! Not when he took his first steps, spoke his first words! Th-the first time he cried out for someone to . . . to chase away the monster under his bed! I didn't sit up with him when he was sick with a fever, or had trouble getting to sleep. I d-didn't sing lullabies to him when he was a baby! Someone else did all that. Someone who could give him and his mother what I couldn't. The security of being there for them, of loving them unconditionally."

"But he's still your son," Jake reminded him. "You still have rights . . ."

"To do what?" Gary asked dismally, fighting to keep his voice low. "To rip him away from two parents who love him so I can show the world I'm a man? To take away his chance to have everything I ever wanted for my child? Wh-what about *his* rights, huh? The . . . the right to a stable home life. To a mom and dad who love him! He's only *four years old,* for cryin' out loud! He has his whole life ahead of him, Jake! And there's a maniac running loose out there who wants to *take mine away!* How can I subject an innocent kid to that kind of danger and still look at myself in the mirror? I . . ." He sank back into the chair as he buried his tear-stained face in his hand. "God!" he moaned. "I don't even know his birthday!"

"July 27th," a soft voice murmured.

Both men turned startled faces to the agent standing by the French doors. He stepped forward hesitantly. "He was born July 27th, 1997," the agent repeated. "He was a little early."

"E-Edward?" Gary murmured nervously.

"I wasn't going to say anything," he shrugged. "I thought Meredith had told you I was in the Secret Service."

"She did," Gary whispered. "Sh-she just never told me your last name. God, I'm sorry. I never wanted anyone to find out. N-not like this!"

"It's okay," Edward grinned. "She told me everything that evening, when they first got home from the station. I was the one who told her that Geran needed to meet the man he saw get shot. He needed to know you were okay or he'd have nightmares about it forever. We, neither of us, figured on you having a double. I hope you were gentle with him," he added to Jake.

"I was," Jake assured him, his voice subdued. "He's a great kid. You've done a good job with him."

"I'd like to think that I've done as well as his real father would've wanted," the agent replied. "Now I have to wonder. You've obviously put a lot of thought into what makes a good father, Mr. Hobson."

"You might as well call me Gary," he sighed. "I've had a good example. My parents are the greatest you could hope for. Just a little overbearing at times. I . . . I've always hoped I'd be as good with my own kids. Wh-what kind of life could I offer anyone, now?" he asked helplessly. *"My* life makes the 'Tower of Terror' look like 'Dumbo's Joy Ride!' No. Geran's much better off with you and his mother. Safer, even. I mean, look at you. You've been in the Service how long?"

"Five years," Chisholm shrugged. "Ten years with the District PD, before that. Why?"

"In those, um, fifteen years," Gary continued, "how many times have you been shot?"

"Once," the agent admitted with a wry grin. "That's how I met Meredith. I caught one in the leg during a training accident the day Geran was born. Again, why?"

"Today makes ten for me," Gary sighed. "In less than two years. I've been in and out of hospitals so many times there's actually a room in one of them with my name on it. The ER staff calls me once a month to see how I'm doing. I spent most of one year either in a bed or a wheelchair, wondering if I'd ever walk, or talk straight, again. Th-things happen to me all the time. Sometimes silly, sometimes . . . sometimes dangerous. And there's no rhyme or reason to it. I-it's just the way things are," he finished dismally.

Jake didn't know what to say in the face of such misery. His own yearnings for a wife and children seemed paltry next to Gary's hunger just for a normal life. And there stood Chisholm, straight, tall and uninjured. The man who had everything that Gary had ever wanted. 

Including his son.

************

Bernie couldn't understand the sudden change in his son's mood. He had seemed so cheerful that morning, at breakfast. Really looking forward to his first chance to get outside. True, news of the shooting had upset him and Lois terribly, but Gary and Jake, both, had come out of it with nothing more than flesh wounds. The doctor had said they were both in good humor after it was all over. Yet, when Lois and Bernie had returned from their outing, they found Gary back in bed, staring at the walls. When they tried to talk to him, he just answered in grunts and monosyllables. His lunch was sent back to the kitchen, untouched. 

The President and his wife stopped by to check on him. Gary barely acknowledged their presence. Concerned, they drew Lois and Bernie to one side.

"How long has he been like this?" Mrs. Bartlett asked. "Since the shooting this morning?" 

"I don't know," Lois sighed. "The doctor said he was upset about Jake getting hurt, insisting that he get treatment first. But, everyone said he was in good spirits afterwards. Even joking about . . . about ruining his new shirt. I think that man guarding him might know something, but he won't tell us *anything!"*

"Of course he won't," the President sighed. "His job is to protect Gary, not inform on him. Not unless it's something that puts Gary's health or safety at risk. If what he knows can help Gary, he'll tell us. If not, we'll only hear it from the source."

**********

"You have to snap out of this, Gary," Jake told his cousin. "Everyone is worried that you're having a relapse of some kind. And I'm getting funny looks from Polly. Damned if I don't think she's almost as psychic as Claire." No response. "Damn it, Gary, *talk to me!* Tell me to go to hell, if nothing else, but say *something!"*

"I thought I'd pretty much said it all," Gary sighed. Finally, signs of life. He was lying on his right side, facing away from his cousin. "Look, I'm sorry to be such a pain. Tell everyone . . . tell 'em I'm brooding about that near miss this morning. A-about you getting hurt. Call it delayed shock . . . or something. They'll buy it. I-I just need time to sort things out. Okay?"

"How much time?" the banker nodded. "A day, maybe? Two? You don't want to let this drag on too long. Lois is already talking to Dr. Griner about you."

"That might not be such a bad idea," Gary murmured. "God! What a mess! I've never even met the . . . the boy, yet. M-maybe it's best that I never do."

Jake pulled a chair up next to his cousin's bed, perching himself on the edge of the seat. He had no idea what to say to make this better. It was a situation totally outside his experience. He found himself wishing that Joan were there. Even if she didn't know how to fix things, she'd find some way to make them all feel better, at least.

"Tell me what I can do to help, Gary," he pleaded. "T-tell me how to make the pain go away."

"You can't," Gary sighed. A sad smile flickered across his tired features as he gave a choked laugh. "They didn't exactly cover this in college. An MBA doesn't include 'Outer Limits: 101' or 'Peyton Place For Beginners,' does it?" 

"No," Jake had to agree. "It doesn't. So, what do we do?"

"We get on with our lives," Gary told him, sadly. He rolled back to face his cousin, vainly wiping at the tears staining his face with the heel of his hand. "Look, just . . . just give me a couple of hours. That's . . . that's all I need. Just a coupla hours to get my head straight again. But we can't talk of this again. Ever. Especially where my folks might hear. I don't want Mom and Dad brooding about a grandchild they'll . . . they'll never get to see. You've got to promise me not to mention this to them."

Jake squirmed uncomfortably, not liking the idea of keeping secrets from Gary's parents. Hell, he couldn't even keep a secret from Joan! "I dunno, Gary," he murmured.

"Promise me, Jake!" Gary insisted.

"Okay!" Jake relented. "O-okay, I'll keep quiet. Just . . .just don't expect me to like it."

"And you think I do?"

*************

True to his word, Gary put on a brave face and managed to be cordial, even cheerful, by suppertime. Only Jake and Agent Chisholm, standing stoically nearby, had any idea of what the effort to appear normal might be costing him.

"I'm so glad to see you're feeling better," Lois sighed with relief as she helped set up his dinner tray. "You really had us worried there for a while, sweetie."

"I-it just kinda hit me all at once, Mom," Gary apologized with a tired grin. "Sorry I worried everyone. I'm okay, now." He was seated in the same wingback chair that Jake had first found him in earlier. It had been turned to face the windows, but a safe distance away from them. Until further notice, neither he, Jake, nor even William, would be allowed outside. Not until it was discovered how the intruders had gotten onto the grounds, and they could be sure that no others were hiding in the woodwork. The President and Vice President were under similar restrictions. "I'm betting they're kinda sorry they invited me in," Gary sighed on hearing the news. "Like they didn't have enough to worry about before."

"It's not like they haven't had scares like this before," Bernie reminded his son. "Both the President and that Josh Lymon fella were shot just a little over a year ago, weren't they? They say Lymon almost died."

"You're right!" Lois nodded thoughtfully. "That may be why they're so protective of you, Gary. You were injured . . . oh, what is that . . . above and beyond the call of duty. And it happened while saving one of their own. *Of course* they feel responsible for your safety! They know the kind of pain you're going through, and they wanted to show their appreciation! You won't let them have a public award ceremony, so they're trying to make up for it by keeping you alive a little longer. I'm sure that, as soon as you're back on your feet, and we get through that dinner party in your honor, we'll be able to go back home and resume a, well, a *relatively* 'normal' life."

Gary had to chuckle at his mother's quick modification of the phrase. Normal, in his experience, was a subjective term. 

"Well," he sighed, "the doctor says I can go home in a few days. My hand is still kinda . . . it's not coming along like it should, but he still thinks I'll get full use of it, eventually. We, um, w-we might not want everyone to go back at one time. Or by the same way. I-I was thinking that the rest of you should go back by plane a day or so after I leave. I'll take the first train to Chicago, the day after the dinner."

"Don't be ridiculous, Gar," Bernie snorted. "You don't think for one minute that we're gonna let you go back by yourself, do you? Not with that Marley character still out there!" The others were quick to agree.

'That's the whole point,' Gary thought to himself. 'While he's after me, the rest of you are safe.' If only he could figure out a way to slip out of the White House unseen!

************* 

Gary's sleep that night was anything but restful. He kept seeing Marley, both father and son interchangeably, as they taunted him with threats to his parents, his friends . . . to Geran. Visions of the child being subjected to the same torments to which they had subjected Gary haunted his dreams.

The cat nudged Gary's chin repeatedly as he tossed and turned in fitful slumber, but even the presence of the mystical tabby wasn't enough to bring the troubled human peace that night.

************

Monday March 4, The White House - 0930 hrs

The doctor encouraged Gary to walk about more, to try to build his strength up. The younger man had been confined to bed much too long, he'd decided.

"You need to start out slow," Dr. Michaels reminded him. "Just up and down this corridor, at first. Also, I'm reducing your morphine to 15 mcg. In a couple of days, we'll try you out on extra-strength Tylenol. You won't be completely *pain* free, but you will be *drug* free." 

"Thank you," Gary murmured with a relieved sigh. "I'll admit that that's been bothering me. K-kinda like an itch at the back of my neck. Just . . . just couldn't make it go away."

"You should be able to get by with over-the-counter sleep aids and pain killers by the time you head back to Chicago," the physician assured him. "If we haven't removed all of your stitches by that time, your family doctor can do it, or the nearest ER. Don't try to tough it out, Hobson. If the pain gets to be too much, or you start running a fever, get to a doctor right away. *Especially* if you start running a fever. Promise me that."

"I will," Gary promised. "But I don't know what kinda germ could survive all the stuff you've pumped into me over the past week."

"And you don't want to find out," Dr. Michaels warned him. "Trust me on that. So, your parents tell me you had a little bout of depression yesterday. Want to talk about it?"

Gary's expression became guarded as he shook his head. "Not really, doc," he mumbled softly. "I-it's just something I need to work out on my own. Or m-maybe with Dr. Griner. He's been my therapist for a coupla years, now. H-he knows me pretty well."

"Well," the doctor chuckled dryly, "I wish you *both* the best of luck. Seems like you'll need it."

"Cute, doc," Gary grumbled, making a face. "Real cute. You do 'stand-up' as a hobby, right?"

"I'm giving you a prescription for oral medications, too," Dr. Michaels grinned, ignoring Gary's barbed comment. "You won't need to get it filled until you go home. We'll take care of everything until then. Now, try to spend more time *out* of bed, than in. And I'll see you in the morning."

***********

Polly spent thirty minutes massaging and manipulating Gary's injured arm. She helped him grip the tennis ball, keeping his hand wrapped with both of hers, as he worked the protesting muscles. This she followed up with heat packs and more massage, to keep the muscles limber. 

"We'll do this again this afternoon," the tech promised him. "And a brief session before you hit the sack. Don't expect too much right away. It may take a few days before we see a difference."

"I dunno," Gary murmured. "It doesn't seem to hurt quite as much as it did when you started." He flexed his fingers experimentally, wincing slightly. "Thanks, Polly." He bit his lip, trying to think of some way to broach a delicate subject. "Um, y-you and Dr. Griner seem pretty close."

Polly nodded absently, her plain face taking on a thoughtful look as her mind drifted back. "I met him about, oh, not quite thirty years ago. It was 1974. I was fresh out of high school, and my folks didn't quite know what to do with me. Hell, *I* didn't know what to do with me! I don't remember all the particulars, but I ended up in Chicago that summer. Got a job as a file clerk in a doctor's office and kinda got talked into expanding my horizons. William was in his third, no fourth year, working toward his Ph. D. It was almost inevitable that we'd meet. We were the only Southerners on campus."

"But he was already involved with someone, wasn't he," Gary guessed.

Polly jerked her mind back to the present, giving her friend a suspicious glare. "Just what, exactly, are you hintin' at, Gary?"

"Just wondering," the younger man grinned. "How long have you been in love with him?"

"Long enough to know it'll never happen," she told him flatly. "I was there at his wedding. At the birth of his first child, a son. I was there when his wife died giving birth to their second child who only outlived her by a few hours. I was at his side when they lowered the coffin holdin' both mother and daughter into a single grave. I'm his friend, Gary. Nothing more, nothing less. I have the same link with him that I have with you. If you sense anything between us, that's it. And that's all."

"S-sorry," Gary murmured, thoroughly chastened. He felt as if he had trespassed somewhere that he did not belong. "It's just that . . . the two of you seem so . . . close."

Polly gave him a solemn, almost pitying look. "There's no one like that in my life, Gary," she told him. "There never has been, and never will be. Ever."

Startled, Gary met her dark gray eyes with his own muddy green ones. She was more serious than he had ever seen her before in the two years he had known her. "You don't know that for a fact," he ventured hesitantly. "You're only, what? Forty-seven? Surely . . ."

"I'm almost forty-eight," she shrugged, "and a little psychic. Nowhere near Claire's league, but I know things about myself, and my own future. Some things I've *always* known. Some things I may *never* know. Since I was seven, I've known that I would never have what most kids my age were too young to even imagine. A home, family, children of my own. It was never meant to be."

Suddenly, Gary knew what it was that formed the 'link' between them. Between her and Dr. Griner. It was loneliness. Polly shared their physical pains because she already shared the even deeper, all pervading emptiness that could only be filled by what they'd never, or no longer had. The love of a soul mate.

"I'm sorry," he said in a near whisper. "I didn't mean . . . I-I just thought, the way you look at him, sometimes . . ."

"Oh, I do love him, Gary" Polly told him bluntly. "Just not that way. I love him the same way I love you. I won't say like a brother, 'cause my brothers and I can make that little fracas in the Persian Gulf look like a hiccup. You're my friends, and I'd never do anything to wreck that. It's too precious to me."

Gary didn't know what to say to that, so he just nodded. He had often wondered just what the canny older woman expected of him. Now, he knew. Nothing. The only relationship she was seeking was akin to what he shared with Marissa. They were partners in a venture, the Foundation, and they were friends. That was all . . . and it was enough. His eyes widened as another thought occurred to him.

"Does this mean you'll start feeling whatever happens to the twins?" he asked in concern. "And Jake, maybe?"

Polly's own eyes grew large as she thought over his question. "Oh, Lord!" she sighed, burying her face in her hands. "I hope not!"

*************

Gary walked slowly down the corridor shortly after lunch. He was flanked on his left by Jake, and on his right by Claire. The young banker had helped him get dressed in faded jeans and another new shirt his mother had given him that morning. This one was a light blue flannel in a broad plaid. It had been an awkward undertaking as both of them had to work one-handed. To their mutual embarrassment, Polly had walked in while they were vainly trying to zip up his jeans. Her face composed in a neutral, nonchalant expression, she had completed the job without saying a word. The gleam in her eyes, though, was unmistakable. After their earlier conversation, Gary found he was not as self-conscious as he had once been around her, and could easily see the humor in the situation. Jake was not so lucky.

"Man," he groaned. "I thought I was gonna die when she came in and my hand was still on your zipper! I just *know* that the minute we were out the door, she was rolling on the floor, laughing her head off."

"She probably was," Gary chuckled. "The look on your face was priceless! I thought I was gonna bust a gut, myself."

*"You* weren't exactly the picture of composure," Jake grumbled. "Your face was as red as mine, I'm sure."

"I keep missing all the fun stuff," Claire sighed. "You could've *told* me you needed help. I'd have been . . . Okay, bad idea," she chuckled as Jake gave her a steady *look.* "But I could've found one of the servants. Or that guard might've helped. Did she tie your shoelaces, too?"

"Yes, she did," Gary nodded, his face reddening slightly. "Jake can get by with loafers," he grumbled, "but I like my Reeboks. So, what are your plans for the day?"

"I've got to meet with some investment group in a couple of hours," Jake sighed. "The boss figures, as long as I'm here, he's gonna put me to work."

"I've been invited to a séance tonight," Claire shrugged. "They have a wonderful research group, here, who're serious about what they do. You might want to look into it, yourself, Gary. Lord knows, you qualify."

Gary had a brief vision of himself sitting in a dark room with wires taped to his forehead and leading to a huge bank of monitors as he waited for the Paper to arrive. A shiver ran up his spine as he jerked himself back to reality.

"Um, thanks," he murmured. "But no thanks. I have enough to worry about in *this* world. I'll leave the afterlife in God's hands." He paused, for a moment, to get his breath. They had been walking for little more than ten minutes, taking their time. "Lord! It didn't seem this hard yesterday morning!"

"You were *shot* yesterday morning," Jake reminded him. "Again. We both were. Mine still hurts like a son of a gun, and it wasn't as deep as yours. How many stitches did you end up with?"

"Enough for a small quilt," Gary grumbled good-naturedly. "In two layers. I still think Dr. Michaels was enjoying his work *way* too much."

************

Later, alone in his room, Gary made a few phone calls. It had taken a great deal of persuasion on his part to get the President and the Secret Service to relax the guard on him to this extent. Feeling a little paranoid just for thinking it, he found himself hoping that the phones weren't tapped. Still, unless he could sneak outside to find a payphone, he had no other options. Earlier, while his cousin had availed himself of Gary's bathroom, the young barkeep had copied the numbers and expiration dates from one of Jake's credit cards. He knew that, when he actually picked up the tickets, he'd probably have to produce some kind of ID, but he'd worry about that when the time came.

Gary soon had a sketchy timetable of trains going to Chicago over the next few days. As things stood, that was as far as his preparations could go. Checking his wallet, he found he still had more than enough cash to pay for his ticket, when he picked it up, and cab rides, as he needed them. The trick would be to make his escape in such a way as to elude the people trying to protect him and, at the same time, draw out the ones trying to kill him. Staying alive to actually reach the safety of his loft was also high on his list. He only wanted to protect his loved ones, not commit suicide. A dead hero, he decided, was more dead than hero. He really wasn't interested in being either one.

***********

Tuesday March 5, The White House - 0900 hrs

Ten days after he had first been shot, and one week after being sequestered in the White House, Gary stood for the final fitting of the tuxedo he was to wear at 'his' dinner the next night. The President had come by shortly after breakfast to see how he was doing, and to announce that he was expecting a few other guests to arrive the next morning, keeping the total number of participants to less than thirty. How *much* less, he wouldn't say. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, Gary had to admit that the tailor had done a fine job. He had even fashioned a matching sling for Gary's injured arm. The results were impressive.

"S-so, um, how do I look?" he asked his mother nervously, slowly turning to face her.

"Oh, my!" Lois sighed. "Dashing. You look just like Errol Flynn! No, better. A cross between Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, and John Wayne. *Very* handsome, and so *very* manly!"

Blushing, Gary ducked his head to hide his embarrassment. "A simple 'fine' was all I was looking for," he mumbled. "S-so, am I gonna get to see you in that green satin dress Dad liked so much? The one you wore last weekend?"

"No," Lois giggled. It was her turn to blush. "CJ took me shopping yesterday, and helped me pick out this lovely . . . well, you'll see it tomorrow night. I just hope your father likes it. That thing cost almost as much as his last RV."

Gary gave a low whistle at that revelation. She wasn't talking petty cash, there! "Let me give you the money for it," he pleaded. "We could take it out of my 'Vegas winnings. That way Dad doesn't have to know, and it won't even make a dent in the Foundation accounts. Please? I-it's the least I can do after everything you two have done for me."

Lois hesitated, not wanting to place such a burden on her only child. It had been her decision to put the dress on their charge card, and she felt that she should figure out a way to pay for it. "I can't let you do that," she sighed. "You don't . . ."

"Yes," Gary told her firmly. "I *do.* I sent most of my winnings to the Foundation accounts, but I kept a little over a hundred thousand for emergencies. Please, Mom, let me do this for you. The price of that dress doesn't even *touch* what I owe you guys for . . . for just *being* there for me. For standing by me through all these God awful messes I keep finding myself in. I just wish I could do as much for Dad!"

Chuckling deep in her throat, Lois placed a hand on her son's good arm, admiring the cut of the jacket, and the soft texture of the material. "Don't worry, sweetie," she told him with an impish smile. "I think we can come up with *something8 to knock his socks off!"

**********

"I've transferred forty thousand to your parents' account," Jake told Gary as they sat down to lunch. "Just like you asked. Was her gown *that* expensive?"

"Actually," Gary chuckled, "I called the store and it was less than fifteen. Mom was trying to psych me out of doing just what I offered to do." He was already seated at the table where the waiter was setting up their meal. He had hoped that his parents could join them, but they had already accepted an invitation from a foreign delegate they'd met at the reception that weekend. "You know, I'd planned on signing the Winnebago over to Dad when the twins got tired of it, but now . . . I think he deserves a new one. Don't you?"

"That's a lot of money just to say 'thank you', Gary," Jake murmured. He couldn't imagine going to such lengths for his own parents. It was only because of Joan that they now had any kind of relationship, at all. "The one the twins are driving wasn't cheap."

"This one doesn't have to be as big," Gary told his cousin. "Not just for the two of them. But I don't want something cut rate, either. This is for my dad, after all. When we get back to Chicago, I want to take him shopping for a really nice one. Would you come along? Help us narrow down the list?"

Jake was touched by his cousin's desire to include him in what was essentially a family outing. It made him feel closer to the Hobsons than he ever had to his own parents. A thought that filled him with mixed emotions. What was it that was missing in his own upper class family that Gary's middle class one had in such abundance? What made his own mother and father so . . . distant? He might never know, but felt blessed to have finally found the closeness he had missed out on most of his life. First with Joanie, now with Gary and *his* family.

"Sure, Gary," he replied with a hesitant smile. "I'd be happy to."

*********

Gary felt guilty, making plans as if tomorrow was going to be just like any other day, but he just couldn't let anyone know what he was planning. If his parents, Jake, or even Polly so much as suspected what he was up to, they would lock him in a padded cell. For his own good. Or the President might send him for a stay at Leavenworth. A nice, safe, cozy little room with a lovely view of the exercise yard. No, he was on his own, no matter what it cost him later. 

'If I survive the next two days,' he vowed, 'I'll make it up to them, somehow. *If* they still trust me after tomorrow night.'

***********

Polly could sense something wrong the moment she touched Gary. He seemed tense, distracted. Even the muscles of his injured arm were tighter than normal, making his therapy session more painful. By the time they were finished, he was bathed in a fine sheen of sweat. 

"Want to talk about it?" she asked as she rubbed his arm with a mild smelling sports cream. 

"Talk about what?" Gary mumbled distractedly. He was having a little difficulty meeting her concerned gaze.

"Whatever it is that you're planning that you think I won't like."

Startled, Gary finally raised his head to look at her. She was intent on her task, massaging the muscles of his arm and shoulder. It seemed to be taking up all her attention.

"Wh-what makes you think I'm planning anything?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant, and failing miserably.

"Gary," his friend sighed, "I'm nearsighted, not blind, and my hearing is a damned sight better than yours. I can almost hear your heart pounding like a jackhammer. You're thinking of doin' somethin' that you *know* the rest of us won't like. Somethin' pretty dangerous, and it's got you scared to death. You're doing it to protect the rest of us, especially Jake and Dr. Griner, because they could be mistaken for you."

"Jake was," Gary murmured miserably. "I think that sniper was gonna kill both of us, just to be on the safe side." 

"True," Polly nodded, packing away her things. "That doesn't mean you have to sacrifice yourself 'for the greater good.' I've always thought it took more gumption to stay alive in situations like this."

For some reason, that struck Gary as funny. He voiced a dry chuckle as he shook his head. "And how many situations like this *have* you been in, Polly?" he snorted.

The portly woman raised her head, finally, to meet his amused gaze. Her own expression was grim.

"You *really* don't want me to answer that."

*******

Gary slept fitfully that night, feeling that what he was planning could be seen by the others as a betrayal of their trust. Neither the morphine, nor the cat could help his troubled imagination settle down enough to grant him the peace of mind he so desperately craved. It wasn't just Jake and Dr. Griner, he told himself. The others were equally at risk. Any one of them could be used as a hostage to draw him out. And what about the child? *His* child! Gary still had trouble wrapping his mind around the fact that Geran even existed; that he finally had the son he had dreamed of, and yet, he didn't. If Marley, or anyone else who might have a grudge against Gary, were to learn of the boy . . . Gary's mind refused to take that thought any further. 

He already had enough nightmares to deal with.

**********

Wednesday March 6, The White House - 0600 hrs

Rubbing his eyes with his good hand, Gary wriggled around until he was sitting almost straight up in bed. The window was still dark, lit only by the backwash of distant streetlights. It was no use. There was no way he was going to get any sleep, now. Laboriously, he swung his legs over the side of the king-sized bed and sat there for a moment, letting a brief spell of dizziness pass. As soon as his head was clear, he levered himself up and padded to the bathroom. A few minutes later, after washing up and splashing a little cold water on his face, he returned to take a seat in the chair facing the window. 

Gary had his plan more or less worked out. That had been the one benefit from not being able to sleep. He had replayed every aspect, tried to find every flaw and come up with some way to counter them. Unfortunately, he kept coming up with more flaws than solutions. Finally, he had mapped out a course of action that, with luck, prayer, and a huge dose of divine intervention, just might get him home alive . . . or, at least in relatively one piece.

**********

The waiter had just taken away the remains of the breakfast Gary had shared with his parents. Lois and Bernie were on their way to see more of the Capitol City, and Gary was temporarily at loose ends. Everyone seemed to have something to do to get ready for the dinner party that night, except him. All his preparations, the ones he could admit to, anyway, were done. As he sat there, staring dismally out the window and wondering if his plans had even one chance in hell of succeeding, the cat jumped into his lap, startling him.

"Hey, buddy," he murmured, absently scratching the feline behind its ears. "If you have any better ideas, I'm willing to listen. Just don't try to talk me out of it. I have to do *something,* or someone is gonna get killed. I can't let that happen, and neither can you."

"You going 'Dr. Dolittle' on me, Hobson?"

The cat leaped gracefully to the bedside table as Gary tried to jump up a little too quickly from his seat. He would've fallen, if not for a timely catch by the two NSA agents. 

"You're looking a lot better than the last time I saw you," Frank Parker commented dryly as he clasped Gary's good arm to steady him. "Still a little wobbly, though."

"P-Parker! Donovan," he stammered, a big grin spreading across his weary features as he regained his balance. "I thought you guys were stuck in Nevada! When did . . . I mean . . . *why?"*

"Did you think we'd let you hog *all* the honors?" Craig Donovan chuckled. "We got a message from the Committee. They want us to make one more pitch to get you on our team."

Gary's grin faltered and faded. So their mysterious 'Committee' still had their sights on him. That was *not* good news. Awkwardly, he waved his two new friends to sit down as he resumed his own seat.

"There's no way I can work for those people," Gary told them bluntly. "I can't let someone I don't know, or t-trust, decide who's worthy of saving and who isn't. I just can't do that."

*"We* know that," Frank sighed, shaking his head, "and you know that. The only way you'll be able to convince *them8 is to state your case in person."

"And have them find five thousand excuses to keep me there?" Gary replied with a shake of his head. "No way. They'll want to do testing and more testing, observations, whatever. The only way they'll be satisfied is if I say 'yes,' and then I'd never see daylight again. They'd keep me locked away, 'protecting a valuable resource,' or some nonsense like that. Then, whatever I *do* tell them, *they'll8 make the decisions and I'd never know which way the vote went. I may not be much, but, to a lot of people, I'm all they've got. And that's *got* to be better than no hope at all."

"Gary," Frank sighed, "I followed you around for the better part of four days. I saw you run yourself to death trying to save people who were no more thankful than your average bureaucrat. I saw you risk your life for a coupla kids who probably ran right out and rolled a wino, or wrote profanity all over some wall in day-glow paint. Do you really think that, to these people, you made any difference in their lives at all?"

"I gave them at least one more day," was Gary's curt rejoinder. "One day to turn their lives around, or to spend with the people they love. O-or to make atonement for past sins. Whatever. Don't you see? That's all I can give *anyone!* Just a little extra time to make a difference of their own! But *everyone* deserves that much. *Everyone."*

"Even you?" Frank asked softly. "What do *you* deserve?"

"A kick in the butt, most days," Gary grinned wearily. "One more day outside of a padded room. I think I used up my quota of miracles over a year ago. I'm just taking each day as it comes."

"Well," Donovan sighed explosively, "we can at least offer you and your group an escort home. We've already got too much invested in you to just walk away, now."

Gary didn't quite know what to say to that, at first. Then he nodded his head in appreciation. For a moment, he was tempted to enlist their help in his 'escape plan.' He knew the two agents would never let him go through with it, however. No, he was still on his own.

*********

Lois pinned a blue carnation to Gary's sling as he settled his arm more comfortably. She was dressed in her new gown, and Gary had to admit it was well worth the price. It was of a pale blue, lightweight material that shimmered as she turned. The skirt was gathered at the waist, and split down the front in an inverted 'v'. The opening revealed a pleated satin underskirt of the exact same shade. The bodice was sleeveless with a v-neck, and topped by a short, long-sleeved jacket. A dark blue velvet choker supporting a tiny cameo topped it off. Gary thought she looked absolutely breath taking in it, and said so.

"You're just saying that because I'm your mother," Lois accused, blushing furiously. Her lips were twitching as she said it, secretly pleased at the compliment.

"Mom," Gary assured her, "You're gonna turn every head there. Even William's. The man may be blind, but I'll bet even *he* can somehow sense just how beautiful you are. Look at Dad. He can't take his eyes off of you."

Lois glanced over to where Bernie was standing in front of the mirror, his back to them. He seemed to be fussing with his tie, but the reflection of his eyes kept meeting hers. Caught, he grinned and turned around.

"He's right," Bernie chuckled. "There's not gonna be a woman there who'll outshine you, Lo. Now, let's not keep the President waiting."

Stepping out into the corridor, they joined the others who were just coming abreast of his door. Jake was dressed in a tux identical to Gary's, the only difference being a yellow carnation pinned to his sling. Claire was dressed in a dark green gown of a velvety material that made her look ten pounds slimmer, while it had been all they could do to get Polly into an outfit that at least *looked* like a gown. The bottom was actually trousers with wide, flowing legs that could be mistaken for a skirt from a distance. The top was a linen shirt covered by a jacket that matched the pants. 

"You will never, *ever,* catch me in a dress," she had told them earlier, in a tone that brooked no arguments. "Not even in my grave. Try it, and I'll flat refuse to die."

"You look lovely," Lois grinned. "Both of you. Burgundy is definitely your color, Polly. Wherever did you find it?"

"A little shop on some back street," she shrugged. "I don't know exactly where. I was lost at the time. Are we ready for this shindig, or what?"

Wordlessly, Gary gave his parents a courtly bow, sweeping his right arm out in a 'lead the way' gesture. His parents each flashed him a dazzling smile and, arm in arm, proceeded towards the dining room. At the last second, Lois slipped her hand around his right arm, drawing him along with them. He was *not* going to walk into that room alone! The seven of them gathered in the bar adjoining the dining room as they waited for a few last-minute guests to arrive.

"I'm so glad to see you're looking better, Mr. Hobson," CJ Cregg told Gary. "Have you had a chance to think about a statement for the press?"

Gary swallowed nervously as he thought of facing a crowd of reporters. The last time he had done that was the night Savalas had been revealed as the man who had murdered columnist Frank Scanlon, proving Gary's innocence. That time at the airport, coming back from California, hardly counted, at least in *his* mind. He had been on a euphoric high, at the time, having just taken his first steps in several months. It had taken only a few stammered words to bring him crashing back down. It was another month before he could talk well enough to be understood. Even now, he often found himself completely tongue-tied.

"P-please," he stammered, self-consciously. "C-call me Gary. And no. I-I'd *really* prefer if no one even knew it was me. I-I mean, no one could *possibly* recognize me from j-just that one picture . . . could they? I was . . . k-kind of a mess, at the time."

"You were *almost* recognizable as a human being," Josh Lymon chuckled. The Deputy Chief of Staff was sipping at a martini. "Those guys worked you over pretty good. You, um, never did say what you were doing in Washington, in the first place. Or what their interest was in you."

"I know," Gary sighed. "My business here was . . . it was kinda personal. A-and it doesn't matter anymore, anyway. As for those goons," he added with a shudder. "That Marley guy . . . I guess he was looking to settle an old grudge. See, I was . . . s-sorta involved w-with . . . with the death of his father . . . S-see, he was . . . God, it's so complicated," he moaned. He paused to sip at his glass of water. His throat felt as if someone was growing cotton in there. "About six years ago," he sighed, staring into his glass as if it were a crystal ball, "J. T. Marley needed a patsy for a job he was about to do. Someone to take the blame, posthumously, for an assassination. He picked me," he murmured dismally. "The, um, th-the police got there before he could . . . A-anyway, that's why *this* Marley wants me. Revenge." At least that was *mostly* true.

The two staffers stared at him, appalled at this grim revelation. Gary took another sip of his water, noticing for the first time that there were others listening to his sketchy account. In fact, almost everyone in the room was staring at him in fascination. The only exceptions were Donovan and Parker. They had already learned the truth from his file. 

"Why do I get the feeling you've only skimmed the high points?" Sam Seaborn murmured. "It must've been horrible!"

"I-it wasn't fun," Gary admitted, meeting his parents' horrified gazes over the Deputy Communications Director's shoulder. This was the first time he had ever spoken of the incident in front of them. The first that they had ever known how close to death he had come that day. 

"You've certainly led an exciting life," Toby Zeigler commented dryly. "What do you do for fun?"

"Sleep," Gary chuckled. "When I can. Seriously, I usually lead a pretty quiet life," he shrugged. "I just have this knack for finding trouble."

"Sounds like it," Leo chuckled. "No wonder you're so stressed out. You need a vacation, kid."

Lois almost choked when she heard that, remembering what he had gone through out west. Gary just shook his head with a wry grin and turned toward the sound of voices just coming in the door. "No, thanks," he murmured under his breath. "The last one almost killed me." He brought the glass of water to his lips once more, preparing to take another sip. Fortunately, he had yet to do so, the glass still inches from his mouth when he spied three familiar figures striding through the door. The slender young woman was dressed in a flowing, strapless gown of red satin. Both men were in dress white Naval uniforms. All three of them stopped in their tracks, staring open-mouthed at the guest of honor. Stunned, they glanced at each other, and then back to Gary, who was beginning to feel like a specimen on a microscope.

Three astonished voices cried as one.

*"Nowicki?"* 

************


	6. Endgame

Wednesday March 6, the White House - 1800 hrs

"*Nowicki?"*

As the three newcomers voiced their astonished cry, Gary looked over his shoulder at the startled faces of his friends and family. He happened to be looking right at Polly when she silently mouthed the name, one eyebrow raised in question. A tiny grin teased at the corner of her mouth as she covered her amusement by sipping at her drink.

Feigning confusion, Gary turned back to the trio still framed by the doorway. He gave them his best 'wide-eyed innocent' look, pointing at his own chest with the glass of water he had miraculously kept from dropping.

"I-I'm sorry," he stammered. "Were you talking to me?"

"I most certainly am!" the man in the admiral's uniform brusquely informed him. "Where the hell did you disappear to? I had my people searching the personnel files throughout the entire system, trying to find you! The only Nowicki we ever found was some guy who didn't look a *thing* like you!" He stepped in closer to Gary, giving him a conspiratorial wink. "Was there some 'hotspot' they needed you in PDQ? Was that it?" he whispered loudly.

Gary looked in confusion from the admiral to the young couple standing arm-in-arm behind the officer. They looked equally confused, having spotted Jake coming over to see if Gary needed help.

"Is there a problem, Gary?" the young banker asked.

"I-I don't know," Gary shrugged. "Um, I'm sorry, sir," he told the senior officer. "I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else. I'm Gary Hobson, and this is my cousin. J-Jake Evans. Are we . . . are we supposed to've met somewhere before?"

"Three years ago," the tall younger officer told him. "In Chicago. You, or someone who looked a lot like you," he added with a sideways glance at Jake, "sorta recruited us to help stop a team of terrorists from blowing up a peace conference."

"I think I remember reading about that," Jake replied casually. "We both live in Chicago, but I can assure you," he added with a dry chuckle, "that neither of us is this 'Nowhosit' you're talking about."

"Nowicki," the admiral absently corrected him, staring from one man to the other uncertainly. "This is incredible. The two of you . . . and Nowicki . . . This is . . . I-I don't know what to say!"

"Why don't we start with an introduction," the slender young woman suggested. She held her hand out to Gary. "I'm Emily Van Owen. This is my husband, Lt. Eric Van Owen. And you've already met my father, Admiral Edward Harrigan."

"P-pleased to meet you," Gary stammered, awkwardly shifting his glass into his left hand so that he could take hers. The fingers barely curled enough to hold the glass, but not enough to keep the water from splashing over the rim and onto her gown. "I-I'm sorry," he murmured, red-faced. "Let me . . ." He looked around for someplace to set his glass.

"No," she smiled, taking his glass. "Let *me.* You're injured. What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"

"That's kinda what this evening is about," Jake chuckled, as he led the way toward the bar. "Ol' Cousin Gary, here, helped stop a terrorist attack on the Vice President's train. In the process, he had the crap beat out of him, and was shot."

Admiral Harrigan gave Gary a speculative look. "That first part sounds *very* familiar."

"So what happened to you?" Lt. Van Owen asked, indicating Jake's sling.

"Mistaken identity," Jake shrugged. He tilted his head at Gary, shooting his flustered cousin an amused glance. "They thought I was him."

"Really?" Emily chuckled, giving Gary an arched eyebrow look. "Wonder how that happened?"

Gary was saved from having to respond when the headwaiter announced that everyone should take his or her seat. The President, of course, was seated at the head of the table, Mrs. Bartlett to his right. Next to her sat Gary, as the guest of honor. To *his* right, was Lois, Bernie, then Jake. Directly across from them were the Vice President, his wife, the admiral, and the Van Owens. 

It was an uncomfortable meal for Gary, and he found that he had little appetite for it. The admiral kept giving him sideways looks, as if he knew Gary was lying. Throughout the meal, the President entertained them with a barrage of historical trivia about the White House and it's residents. Trivia that a host of voices kept whispering derisive comments about as Gary tried to eat his soup.

It was a struggle for Gary to maintain a neutral, yet interested expression as he was bombarded with impressions from several different levels. There were the living people who were speaking to, and around him. There were also the visible specters who cajoled him to speak up for them, and the disembodied voices making their own opinions heard. 

"Gary?" Lois whispered. "Are you all right, sweetie?"

With a start, Gary jerked his attention back to the living occupants of the room. He glanced down at his plate, realizing that he had not touched his main course. Looking around, he saw that the waiters were already removing the plates from in front of the other diners.

"I-I'm sorry," he murmured. "I-I guess I'm still kinda . . . Did I miss something?"

"Just the President telling everyone what a hero you are," she whispered. "Seriously, hon, aren't you feeling well? You look like you've seen a ghost!"

'If you only knew,' Gary thought to himself. Licking his lips nervously, he ducked his head, refusing to look at the grinning specter waving at him from behind the admiral. He took a hurried bite of his entrée just before the waiter arrived to take his plate.

"Is something wrong with your sirloin tips, sir?" the servant asked solicitously. "You've hardly touched them."

"N-no," Gary assured him. "It's . . . it's great. I'm just . . . just not very hungry, I guess. Thank you," he murmured as the plate was removed. 

"You're not looking very well, Gary," Mrs. Bartlett murmured. "Do you need to lie down?"

"I'm fine, ma'am," Gary replied, too softly to be heard by anyone else but the two women to either side of him. "Honestly. I'm just not used to all the attention, I guess. I-I'm really a-a low key kinda guy."

"As soon as this shindig is over," the First Lady mumbled, "I want to you to go back to your room and get in bed. Understand?"

"Th-that's not necessary," Gary stammered hurriedly. That would royally mess up his plans! "I'm fine! Really. It's just . . ."

"This place is rocking!" Claire chuckled from halfway down the table. "I've never *seen* so many disembodied auras in one place! It's incredible!" She was looking around in utter amazement. "Gary, you must be an ethereal magnet! There's over a dozen . . ." She broke off as she caught sight of Gary's pained expression.

"Bust-ed," the First Lady murmured softly, without raising her head or moving her lips. "So much for 'low key.'"

************

Gary eased down on Jake's bed with a loud sigh. Tossing the embossed leather folder onto the bed, he reached up with his good hand to loosen his tie. 

"I don't even remember accepting that thing," he murmured. "Hell, I don't remember most of the dinner." He looked over to where his cousin was carefully removing his sling. "Did I make a fool of myself?"

"Not at all, Gary," the banker chuckled as he tossed the sling on the back of a chair. "You just seemed a little . . . tired. Kind of, you know, out of it. Are you sure you shouldn't be in bed?"

"Jake," Gary sighed, "I've hardly been *out* of that bed in over a week! I'm really not in that big of a hurry to crawl back in." He looked up at Jake with a tired smile. "Didn't Mom look great in that gown? She was having a ball tonight."

"So was your dad," Jake nodded. He eased his injured arm out of the tuxedo jacket, hanging the garment over the back of the same chair. He continued to undress as he spoke. "You know, this trip is going to be the highlight of their 'golden years.' They'll be the talk of the neighborhood when they start showing off pictures of them and the President, the First Lady, the Vice President, etcetera, etcetera, and so on." He carefully arranged the tuxedo on its hanger before placing it in the wardrobe. Wearing only his t-shirt and boxers, Jake turned to face his cousin. "Look, why don't you stretch out for a minute while I take a quick shower. We can talk and I'll catch you up on what you missed at dinner, tonight."

"I'd appreciate that," Gary chuckled. "But take your time. You have to be careful to keep those stitches dry." He pointed at the bandage covering Jake's wound. "Don't forget to cover that."

"Right," the banker sighed. He *had* forgotten. The arm had hardly bothered him the entire night. It seemed silly, to him, to make such a fuss over what, in light of Gary's injuries, amounted to a scratch. Still, if he let it get infected, Joanie would have a fit. "Thanks for the reminder." He pulled out a role of plastic wrap Polly had given him and, with Gary's awkward assistance and a few pieces of tape, soon had a water-tight cover in place. "I feel like a leftover rib roast," he grumbled good-naturedly. "Be out in a few minutes."

The moment the shower started, Gary went into action. Biting his lip, he quickly stripped off the tuxedo, all but the pants, and slipped into one of Jake's pullover shirts and a sports coat. He knew Jake's idea of a 'quick' shower was at least twenty minutes. That should give him a decent head start. It had taken him almost ten, however, just to make the change with only one hand, cutting his lead in half. By the time he was ready, his hair and brow were soaked with perspiration. Grabbing Jake's security pass off the nightstand, he eased out the door, closing it quietly behind him. 

Gary had made sure, before the dinner, to have everything he needed tucked into the various pockets of his tux. It had been the matter of only a moment to transfer the large wad of cash from one jacket to another, plus his watch and wallet. Clamping Jake's pass into the jacket's lapel, he stuck his left hand into the pocket, for support. He had no intention of standing out in a crowd by wearing that sling.

Careful not to be seen by his parents or any of his friends, Gary took a slightly circuitous route to the front entrance. A pretty brunette at the security desk took Jake's pass and called a cab for him. Smiling, she told him it would be there within twenty minutes.

"B-but I have to get to the airport *now!"* Gary insisted. He couldn't *believe* he'd forgotten to call a cab earlier. In all fairness, he really hadn't been alone long enough to make the call. Plus he had been bombarded by that ghostly tirade all through dinner. It was a wonder that he even had sense enough to have gotten this far! "Please?" he begged the young intern. "I need to catch the red-eye back to Chicago, and with all these new security measures, I have to be there at *least* a couple of hours before it takes off!" He gave her his most pleading, puppy-dog-eyed look. "Isn't there *some* way you can help me?" 

The young woman gave him a helpless little smile as she shrugged and shook her head. Secretly, she was hoping the taxi would have a flat. Anything to keep this handsome specimen pacing anxiously within her sight!

"You could share our limo," a familiar voice offered. 

Hesitantly, Gary turned to find Emily Van Owen smiling at him, her arm linked with that of her husband's. 

"We were just on our way back to the townhouse," the lieutenant shrugged. "It's no problem to make a detour."

"I-I can't ask you to do that," Gary stammered uncertainly. "C-could I? I-I mean, it's miles out of your way."

"It's no problem," Emily assured him. She took him gently by the left arm, pretending not to notice when he stifled a wince, and steered him down the steps. Much to the obvious disappointment of the young intern. "Besides, I think that young woman was stalling you," she giggled. "She was enjoying the view *way* too much to let you get away in a hurry."

Blushing, Gary quickly squelched an urge to look over his shoulder at the pretty brunette. He allowed the Van Owens to escort him down to the curb and assist him into the waiting limo. To his chagrin, the Admiral was already occupying the seat directly behind the driver, facing back towards Gary.

"So glad we could be of assistance," the senior officer smiled. "Lt. Nowicki."

"Ho-boy," Gary murmured. "H-hello, A-Admiral." As the car pulled away from the curb, he sank back with a weary sigh. This was going to be a *long* night.

**********

Jake took his time in the shower, secretly hoping that Gary would fall asleep waiting for him. He was worried about his cousin, having noticed how distracted and worn-down the barkeep had been looking all evening. Jake had to wonder if his 'twin' was suffering flashbacks. Dr. Griner had told him that people who survived the kind of torment that Marley had dished out often found themselves reliving it. That the most innocuous things could trigger a powerful, vivid memory. 

Finally deciding that he had been in there long enough, Jake turned off the water and began drying himself off. To his chagrin, he heard movement in the next room. Either Gary wasn't as tired as he had appeared to be, or he had the stamina of a racehorse! Starting to wrap the towel around his waist as he stepped through the bathroom door, Jake prepared to chase his obstinate cousin off to bed.

"Gary," he said, "it's getting kinda late. Do you mind if we *oh my Lord!"*

*"Eeeeeeek!"*

It was hard to tell who was more surprised, Jake . . . or the maid who had been stripping the bed.

************

"You didn't *really* think we'd buy into that 'just one of those faces' excuse?" the admiral chuckled. "Or that it's just a coincidence that *you* happened to know about a terrorist attack on the VP that even the CIA hadn't caught wind of? Now, tell us the truth. Where are you *really* going? Some 'hotspot' in the Middle East? Afghanistan, maybe?"

"I-I'm afraid you have me mixed up with my cousin," Gary stammered nervously. "I'm Jake Evans, the banker. The riskiest thing I deal with is market analysis and the occasional audit. And Gary? H-he runs a bar downtown. M-McGinty's on Illinois and Franklin. The farthest he's been from home in the last six years was a trip to 'Vegas last November. P-poor guy has this . . . this knack for landing up to his neck in trouble."

As they talked, Gary glanced nervously out the tinted windows of the limousine. So far as he could tell, they *were* headed in the general direction of the airport. 

"He *could* be telling the truth, Dad," Emily commented, watching Gary closely. "The resemblance between them is absolutely uncanny. What bank did you say you work for?" she asked Gary.

"Union Securities." The name rolled naturally off of Gary's tongue, as well as the address of the main Chicago office, the name of Jake's secretary, whom he'd met on several occasions, and the name of his immediate superior. For the next several minutes, he glibly answered questions with what little he knew of Jake's life. What surprised him was just how much he actually knew. "N-no," he replied to Eric's question, asking if they had grown up together. "We, um, we met last October. He and Ms. Gannon, and a couple of other cousins . . . th-they came into this huge, um, reward. They wanted to do something . . . positive with . . . that much money, so they came to my bank." He managed a dry chuckle at the memory. "I'll bet it was Simmons, at the front desk, who sent them to me. Imagine walking into your own office and coming face-to-face . . . to face with *three* guys who look just like you! Let me tell you, it's not easy keeping your cool in a situation like that."

"Uh-hunh! Three. Right. And how did your cousins earn this . . . reward?" Admiral Harrigan asked, his skepticism evident.

"By staying alive," Gary answered grimly. He really didn't want to go into the details. Too many things were still *way* too fresh in his mind. More was lost forever . . . he hoped. He had no memory of the two times he was 'put in touch' with the consciousness of the comatose 'soldier,' Tony Greco, and had no wish to. Nor did he have any clear recollections of the young Mafioso's passing. Only a sense that he had found the peace that had eluded him in life. "S-see, um, there were these, um, a-a team of assassins. G-Gary had witnessed a, ahm, a murder wh-while looking for his cat."

"His *cat?"* Emily exclaimed in disbelief. 

"Y-yeah!" Gary stammered. "Oh, you'd love this cat. Great cat. Smart as a . . . a-anyway, the cat went missing and ol' Gary, h-he can't stand the idea of anything happening to, um, so he goes looking f-for his cat . . . in this warehouse . . . in Chinatown."

"Wait a minute," Eric interrupted. "He lives above his bar on Illinois and Franklin, which is in downtown Chicago, yet he goes all the way to *Chinatown* to look for his cat? Are we really supposed to buy that?"

"I don't care what you buy," Gary shot back. "I'm just going by what I've been told." 'Keep it cool,' he reminded himself. 'You're Jake, not Gary.' "Do you wanna hear this story, or not?" The admiral waved him to go ahead. "S-so G-Gary goes into this warehouse 'cause he thought he heard his cat, b-but he finds this little girl instead. Sh-she, um, she was . . . a-anyway, he also heard these guys arguing . . . in Chinese. H-he can't understand a word they're saying but it doesn't sound good, s-so he figures he better get that little girl out of there. Th-then . . . the shooting started and, um, h-he doesn't t-talk about the rest of it. I get the feeling that he'd *much* rather forget it ever happened."

"What happened to the little girl?" Emily murmured.

"He, um, he managed to get her out before it all went sour," Gary shrugged. "She never saw a thing, so these . . . these guys never figured her as a threat. She was scared, but . . . but o-okay."

"And they hired these . . . assassins," the admiral mused, "to eliminate the only reliable witness. Is that what you're saying?"

"Y-yeah," Gary nodded vigorously. How far *was* it to the airport, he wondered? The ride seemed to be taking forever! 

"They weren't, say, taking out the competition?" the senior officer speculated.

That hit Gary from 'left field,' confusing him for a moment. "I'm sorry," he replied hesitantly. "I don't think I understand what you mean by that."

"Oh come, now, Mr. Evans," Admiral Harrigan chuckled. "If you truly *are* Mr. Evans. They don't hire international assassins for a bartender!"

"They do if all the local talent failed," Gary snapped, irked at the other man's tone. "And Gary is a bar *owner* not a *bartender,* unless someone gets sick! Look, I appreciate the ride, and all, but if you only did it to interrogate me, then you can let me off at the next corner. I'm with United Securities, not 'Her Majesty's Secret Service.' Jake Evans. Not James Bond. I drink my martinis stirred. With an olive. And I *don't* like vodka!"

"Easy!" Emily chuckled, trying to smooth his 'ruffled feathers.' "We've just been very curious about the way 'Lt. Nowicki' disappeared so suddenly. Without waiting for so much as a thank you. *Very* mysterious."

"From what you just said," her father added, "your cousin managed to elude the best of the 'local talent' and capture two well connected international assassins. Quite a coup for a bartender."

"Bar *keeper,"* Gary corrected with a frustrated sigh. "And he was just the bait. He told me that, if not for the CPD and a local PI, he would've been dead ten times over. He doesn't like to talk about this, and neither do I, but you have to understand my cousin. He doesn't *like* attention. Not because he's some 'top secret' whatever, but because he just wants a normal life."

"Yet your Mr. Hobson leads such an *exciting* life," Eric commented dryly, "for a barkeep."

"N-not at all," Gary stammered, thinking he may have overplayed his impersonation. "L-like I said. Things just keep . . . happening to him. Th-that's . . . Oh, look! There's the airport exit! I really appreciate this, guys. M-Mrs. Van Owen. My boss was *adamant* that I be at this meeting in the morning. You've saved my life." 'I hope.'

The driver helped Gary out in front of the United Airlines entrance. He was still trying to conceal how useless his left arm was, as Jake had not had any trouble slipping *his* out of the sling from time to time during dinner.

"We'll look you up when we get back to Chicago," the admiral promised. "Your cousin, too. Have a good flight . . . Mr. *Evans."*

As they watched their passenger hurry inside, the admiral turned to his daughter and son-in-law.

"Did you buy any of that?" he asked them, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

"Not a word," Emily replied. "But it really was an incredible story."

Gary hurried inside and stood in line at the desk, watching until the limo had finally pulled away. He was pretty sure the admiral had been watching to see which airline he actually took. The moment the big car was out of sight, he hurried to the arrivals gate and snagged the second taxi in line. He quickly gave the name of the train station where he had already booked a seat on the next train bound for Chicago.

**************

"Wh-wh-what are you doing here?" Jake stammered, quickly tying the towel around his waist. He reached behind the bathroom door and grabbed the terrycloth robe hanging there. As he struggled into it, the maid fought to regain her composure.

"The front desk said you had turned in your security pass, Mr. Evans," she replied. The young woman bit her lip to hide a smile. Now that the shock had worn off, she was obviously enjoying herself. Her eyes seemed to be memorizing every inch of him. "I thought I'd go ahead and straighten up tonight."

"W-well," Jake huffed, tugging the robe a little tighter, "as you can see, 'Mr. Evans' is still very much here. S-so if you don't mind." He waved his hand in a shooing motion. "I need to get dressed so I can get to the bottom of this mess."

"Very well, sir," the maid replied, giving him one more lingering glance as she backed out through the door. "Call if you need anything. Ask for Laura," she added, giving him a suggestive wink. Her eyes were still 'checking him out' as the door clicked shut.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Jake collapsed on the bed. "Joanie is never gonna believe this," he moaned. "Gary, what have you *done?"* He recalled how guilty his cousin had felt that day after the shooting in the rose garden. Had he really gone off to draw out the terrorists? To divert their attention from his family and friends? "Hell, yes," Jake grumbled to himself. "That's exactly what you did! Using *my* security pass! Crap!"

For Jake, it was only a matter of minutes to get dressed and rush to Gary's room. He found Lois and Bernie talking with the President, First Lady, and those two guys from the NSA or NSC, or some other letters of the alphabet. "Is Gary in here?" he asked, fearing that he already knew the answer.

"We saw him go into your room about an hour ago," Lois told him. "Wasn't he with you?"

Jake quickly explained about Gary leaving while he was in the shower . . . with Jake's pass. "I'm also missing one of my shirts and a dark blue sports coat," he added. "I think our wounded pigeon has flown the coup."

The President grabbed the phone and was instantly put through to his chief of security. It took several minutes, but they soon knew that Gary, passing himself off as Jake, had been given a ride to the airport by Admiral Harrigan and his family. 

Jake had not waited around to hear any of this. The instant he had delivered his alarming statement, the young banker was bolting for the front entrance. He approached the same young lady who had been so helpful to his cousin. She seemed startled to see him. Yes, she remembered 'Mr. Evans.' Yes, she had called him a cab to take him to the airport. No, he seemed in a hurry, so he had accepted a ride with the admiral and his party. She sounded rather disappointed about that. 

"I need you to call me a cab," Jake told her. "How soon can you get one here?"

"It usually takes about twenty minutes, sir," the young intern replied. "Who shall I say it's for?"

"Jake Evans," he replied distractedly. He had grabbed a phone book from her desk and was rapidly thumbing through the Yellow Pages. 'Train stations,' he thought to himself. 'The airport's too obvious. And Gary's in no shape for a long bus ride. That leaves . . .'

"I'm sorry, sir," the young woman was saying. "You can't be Mr. Evans."

It took a moment for this to sink in. "Excuse me?" Jake asked, astonished at this girl's bald statement. *"Why* can't I be me, um, M-Mr. Evans?"

"Because Mr. Jake Evans signed out about forty-five minutes ago," was her prim reply. She turned the security log around for him to see 'his' signature. "So, you *can't* be Jake Evans. I mean you *could,* you look so much alike. But you *couldn't* because he's already signed out!"

Jake was getting confused just listening to her. "L-let me get this straight," he ventured. *"I* can't be Jake Evans, because this guy who looks just like me *said* he was Jake Evans. And he's already left the building, correct?"

"That's correct," the girl replied, flashing him a brilliant smile. As if to say, 'See how easy that was?' "You can't be Mr. Evans, therefore, you must be someone *else* who's a guest of the White House."

Jake was getting a headache. He rubbed vigorously at his temples as he tried to follow her convoluted logic. "And just who would you suggest that I might be?" he sighed patiently.

"Don't *you* know?"

Jake braced his arms on the desk and let his head droop. 'Yep,' he told himself. 'This is gonna be a real skull buster.'

"Sign me out as Gary Hobson," he told her, speaking very slowly. "I left my pass upstairs, but I'm sure it won't be a problem because I am leaving, not entering, this august edifice. Now, will you *please* . . . call me . . . a cab?"

"Of course, Mr. Hobson," the girl replied stiffly. Her tone clearly said, 'Grouch.' "If you'll wait by the entrance, I'll page you as soon as it arrives." She picked up her phone and began dialing.

"Thank you," Jake sighed. "In the meanwhile, is there a phone I can use? I need to make a few calls."

Pointing at a courtesy desk closer to the entrance, she paid no further attention to him as she spoke to the dispatcher. Too bad, she told herself. So nice looking, but such a grump!

***********

Gary made his train with half an hour to spare. There was some deal about a special baggage car being added on at the end. It was causing some problems. Something about a Tyler mount? Wasn't that for news cameras, he wondered? God! He hoped he hadn't stumbled into some media circus event! He had been hoping to slip away quietly.

No, the conductor assured him. It was just some company using the train as one of the locations for their movie. A five minute action sequence that was taking three days to shoot.

Feeling a little more at ease upon hearing this, Gary settled into his seat with a sigh. His shoulder was throbbing like a sore tooth, the absence of the sling beginning to tell on him. He was almost wishing he had worn it, after all. 

Soon enough, the train pulled out from the station. The minute, but rhythmic, vibrations of the conveyance quickly lulled him into a false sense of security. Laying his seat back, Gary made himself as comfortable as possible for the long ride.

In minutes, Gary was sound asleep. Thus it was that he did not see the woman seated near the back of the car, whispering into her cell phone.

*********

By the time his cab arrived, Jake had found the station where Gary had purchased his ticket. The agent told him it had been held in the name of Jake Evans, secured by one of his credit card numbers. The party picking it up, however, had paid in cash. No, sir. The train was leaving the station within the next few minutes. No, sir. There was no way they could delay the train any further. It was already almost an hour late due to a movie company adding on a special car. 

"Then what's the next stop on the line for that train?" Jake asked, just as his, or rather Gary's, name was called. He quickly wrote down the information, thanking the agent profusely as he hung up. He ran out the door and jumped into the taxi before the driver could open the door for him. Jake handed the piece of paper to the cabbie, saying that he had to be at that station in less than two hours.

"Are you nuts?" the hack grumbled. "That's way outside my zone, pal. I'll get docked a month's pay for a trip like that!"

"Two hundred if you get me there in ninety minutes," Jake offered, holding out four fifty-dollar bills. "That's over and above whatever the meter shows."

"Fasten your seatbelt, Mac," the cabbie replied. "You've got a deal."

As the taxi pulled out, Jake settled back in his seat. The minute they hit the main road, he knew, the cabbie would be going for new land speed records to get him to his destination. Now, if only they were lucky enough to avoid being stopped for speeding!

So engrossed was Jake in trying to plan what he was going to do when he caught up with his errant cousin, he failed to notice two men racing down the steps of the White House. Parker and Donovan halted at the foot of the stairs, cursing in frustration as they watched the cab speed away. 

*********

Gary gave a start, wincing as the sudden motion sent a shaft of pain radiating from his shoulder and into his arm. Biting back a groan, he looked around to see what had awakened him. To his bewilderment, the train was not moving. Other passengers were also looking around, wondering at the cause for this unscheduled stop. The only one still sleeping was a middle-aged woman near the back of the car.

"Excuse me," an older man asked a passing conductor. "Is there a problem?"

"No, sir," the conductor assured him. "Just a slight delay. A maintenance vehicle was left on the tracks, and we're having to wait until it's been removed. It'll only be a few more minutes." Having imparted this information, the attendant continued on his way.

Gary had to wonder, as did several others, what a maintenance vehicle was doing on the tracks that late at night? On impulse, he levered himself from his seat and followed after the conductor. He passed by the sleeping woman, paying her no more attention than he would any other stranger. It was in the next car that he finally caught up with the railway employee. 

"E-excuse me. Sir?" Gary said. "Is there anyway I can upgrade my ticket to a roomette or a berth? I've been a little under the weather, a-and I'd really like someplace I could stretch out."

The conductor took one look at Gary's pale, sweat-beaded face, and nodded his understanding. He led the younger man to an empty roomette and told him not to worry. They could take care of everything when they got to the next station.

Gary stretched out on the seat with a grateful sigh. This offered him some measure of concealment and, hopefully, a chance get a little real, drug free sleep. 

A short time later, the train pulled into its regular stop. Gary was just starting to drift off to sleep when something landed on his stomach with a low growl. Struggling against his own body's desire for rest, he opened his eyes to see a familiar striped face just a few inches from his own. 

"We have *got* to do something about your breath," Gary murmured, setting the tabby aside with his good hand. Sitting up, he ran his hand over his face, trying to wake up a little more. Looking out the window, the fog in his brain was quickly dispelled by a much too familiar face. 

Marley! The terrorist was standing on the platform, flanked on each side by two more bruisers. Where did he keep *finding* these hairless gorillas, Gary wondered? Each of the four henchmen looked like they bench-pressed Volkswagens! No *way* was he going to sit still and let them get their hands on him!

"C'mon, cat," he murmured. "It's time we found other transportation. How do you feel about hitch-hiking?"

As Gary was about to leave the roomette, he saw the five men separate, one going to each of the three passenger cars, and the two sleepers. Panicked, he looked around for someplace to hide. The tiny cubicle offered him no solutions. Going out into the corridor would only lead him to one goon or another. What could he do?

A faint noise just outside his door caused Gary to freeze, his heart pounding. He was trapped!

****************

Jake snatched his ticket from the agent and ran for the platform. He had been sweating bullets, praying that he would make it in time. Luck had been with him in that the train had been delayed for some reason, giving him a chance to jump aboard just as it was pulling out of the station. He leaped up the steps into the first car, a sleeper. This time of night, there were not many people in evidence, most having either retreated to a berth, or a cubicle if they had one. Gary's ticket put him in the first passenger car, not the sleeper.

The young banker worked his way through the first car, checking each compartment. No sign of his errant cousin. He tried explaining to the conductor that he was looking for a man who looked exactly like him, but who might not be feeling well, and having trouble with his left arm. The conductor wanted to know what kind of games he was playing, before shaking his head and going off to help a woman with a cranky child.

Jake could sympathize. He was getting a little 'cranky' himself. 

**********

The door opened and the thug stepped into the cubicle. He opened the closet, looked into the overhead bunk and then left. A few minutes after the door closed, the bench seat rose up a couple of inches. Two mud-puddle green eyes peered cautiously through the narrow gap. Gary made sure the coast was clear before he emerged from his hiding place. It had been a tight squeeze, but he had managed to wedge himself into the space beneath the padded seat before the goon had finished picking the lock. He had, at one point, considered the fold-down bunk, but couldn't think of a way to pull it shut with him in it. 

It was the cat that had clued him in to the fact that the bench seat was not bolted down. His furry guardian angel had come through again. Now, if only *he* could vanish as easily as the enigmatic feline!

Gary straightened his, or rather Jake's, jacket as best he could with only one good hand, then eased the door open just a crack. He could see the thug heading toward the back of the train, which had started moving while he was stuck in that tiny hole. Thinking the coast was now clear, Gary slipped silently into the corridor and turned toward the front of the car. His plan had been to go from car to car, if need be, to find the conductor and enlist his help. 

His plans changed dramatically when he glanced through the connecting doors, and spotted Marley grinning at him from the next car! Gary spun on his heel and bolted back the way he had come, ignoring the startled looks from the few other passengers occupying the car. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of pursuit as Marley and company crossed the gap to his car.

Gary never slowed as he burst through the door leading to the platform, snatching the next door open and barreling into a large obstruction. Before he even realized that he had hit someone, Gary was through and flying down the narrow hallway. He only spared the man he had knocked down a muttered "Sorry," and a quick glance. The words stuck in his throat as he recognized one of Marley's henchmen scowling up at him. Gary ran faster.

*********

Jake heard a startled cry up ahead. Increasing his pace, he was sure he recognized the broad back disappearing through the connecting door as having boarded the train while he was still buying his ticket. 'Could that be one of Marley's people?' he asked himself. 'If it is, I better not let them see me. One case of . . . Wait. Why is he running? Oh, God! They've cornered Gary!'

He put on a burst of speed, now trying to catch up with the men he most feared to run into. An idea occurred to him when he spotted the end of a briefcase just barely sticking out into the aisle. 

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said to the smartly dressed woman occupying the seat. "May I borrow this? It's a matter of life and death. Seriously."

"Lose my research," she told him, "and I can guarantee it. Other than that, be my guest."

"Thank you," Jake murmured. He snatched the aluminum case up and ran for all he was worth. Slowing as he came up behind the last man in line, Jake waited until the others had already gone through the opening, then brought the briefcase down on the thug's head in a crushing blow.

The big man turned in slow motion. Upon spying his supposed quarry, his eyes widened in surprise, before rolling up into his head. The stunned behemoth then collapsed at the banker's feet. 

Jake set the case down, letting his breath out in an explosive sigh of relief. He'd thought he'd blown it there, for just a second. Grabbing the huge man by the ankles, Jake dragged him into a cubicle and used the thug's own belt to tie his hands behind his back. The young banker then locked the door and hung a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the handle. Grabbing up the briefcase once more, he continued to follow the sounds of pursuit.

************

Gary ducked into the nearest bathroom when he heard footsteps thumping rapidly ahead, coming from the direction he had been heading. A few seconds after pulling the door shut, he heard what sounded like a small elephant go thundering past. Gary didn't even wait for the echoes to die before he yanked the door open and bolted for the flexible corridor linking the last day coach with the dining car. The door leading to the platform had barely opened when he heard a shout behind him! Gary yanked the portal shut, jamming the handle of a plunger he had found in the bathroom under the lever. He knew it wouldn't hold for long, but it might give him a bigger lead. Perhaps even a chance to hide.

Gary ran through the empty dining car, and on through to the galley, his pursuers curses ringing in his ears as they finally overcame his minor obstacle. He ripped the cap from a bottle of cooking oil and slung it across the floor behind him, not stopping to witness the results of his handiwork. The contents of a bag of rice soon joined the mess, along with some dried beans. 

Cries of surprise and loud curses, followed by a cacophony of crashing pans and dishes, testified to the success of his tactics. Gary didn't think it would be prudent to stand around and gloat. He ran for the next car as if his life depended on it.

A *most* accurate assessment.

*********

Jake heard the racket up ahead and figured he must be closing in on his cousin. He paused, in the junction between cars, to set the briefcase aside and grab a small fire extinguisher. He wasn't sure how much damage he could do with it, but it was heavier than the briefcase. He almost fell for Gary's trap as he ran into the back of the dining car, but managed to keep his feet under him. He had just reached the end of the compartment when he thought he heard a pained cry from up ahead, almost drowned out by the clatter of wheels as the train sped along its tracks. He bolted through the adjoining doors, ignoring startled cries behind him. 

Next was a crowded baggage car. It was full of the regular passengers' luggage and a few large trunks and crates. But no goons and, more importantly, no Gary. Cries of alarm and consternation drew Jake's attention to the fact that there was another car beyond this one. Hands tightening on the fire extinguisher, he quickly navigated the narrow space between the stacks.

With a loud cry, the banker burst through into the next car, hoping to surprise Gary's attackers. His shout died in his throat at the astonishing sight before him!

In the narrow confines of the baggage car stood Gary, a long pry bar in his good hand. He was squared off against Marley and three more WWF rejects, his left arm dangling uselessly by his side. The look on his face was one of sheer panic and determination. His four opponents, while seeming to take up all the available space in the unusually wide car, also seemed hesitant to brave his puny defense.

A fact that was probably explained by the bright lights, the cameras, and the group of people staring in fascination at this grim tableau. One man, apparently the director, began yelling that they were *not* on their marks! His words were almost drowned out by the train noises crashing in through the open cargo door. The cameramen at each end of the car were trying to keep the four men in focus, without filming each other. There did not seem to be a sound crew in evidence. Apparently, background noise and voices were to be dubbed in later. Behind the director, a tall, dark-haired man with lean, swarthy features, was rifling through a multi-colored sheaf of papers. 

"Was this in the blue pages?" he muttered in a soft foreign accent. The actor turned to the prop man next to him. "Did *you* know about these changes?" The prop man just shrugged helplessly.

"K-keep away from me, Marley," Gary stammered. His attention was locked on the four men in front of him, any one of whom could break him in half! He seemed totally unaware that anyone else was in the car. "I'm no threat to you!"

"Your very *existence* is a threat," Marley growled. "Your blundering around, trying to save people from their own follies, interfering where you don't belong . . . It got my father killed!"

"Your father got *himself* killed!" Gary retorted. "He was given every chance to surrender! A-all I did was try to stay alive!" He took a hurried step back, brandishing the pry bar like a sword, as one of the goons made a quick feint to his left. "Stay back! I-I'm warning you! I didn't ask to get mixed up in that mess! Your father needed a patsy and I was handy. That's all!"

"Are we getting all this?" the director whispered to one of the cameramen. He was answered with a quick 'thumbs up.' "Good."

"I don't think I have these changes," the handsome actor was saying. "Am I missing some pages?"

One of the goons lunged at Gary, who jumped back almost out of reach, bringing the pry bar down in a vicious blow across that broad back. It hardly phased the larger man, who grabbed at Gary's ankles, trying to bring the smaller man to the floor. Gary danced back a step and kicked the big bruiser in the chin. This maneuver put him a little closer to the open cargo door, but accomplished little else. The wind from the broad opening whipped at his hair and clothing, stinging his eyes.

Jake chose that moment to act. He ignored the stunned looks of the movie crew as he sprayed the nearest goon with the fire extinguisher. He then used the canister as a club, smashing it across the behemoth's face as he turned to confront this new factor. To Jake's astonishment, this hardly seemed to phase the big man, who shook his head and snarled at the banker. Swallowing nervously, Jake backed up a step, holding the canister in front of him like a shield. Smiling menacingly, the hulking thug took a slow step forward, his arms spread as if to give him a big hug. Jake was pretty sure he didn't want those tree trunks anywhere near his ribs.

There was a loud 'clang!' The thug in front of Jake rolled his eyes up into his head and dropped to the floor. 

"I didn't like his face," the swarthy actor shrugged, tossing aside the metal folding chair he had used as a club. "Are you hokay?" he asked Jake. 

"I-I'm fine," Jake stammered. He looked around for the other goon. To his amazement, Parker and Donovan had appeared as if from nowhere, and were trying to wrestle the leviathan to the floor. They weren't having much success. The broad shouldered giant was slinging them around like dolls! Finally, Parker managed to bring his knee up in a crippling blow that left the giant pasty-faced and gasping for air. 

All this time, the third bruiser had still been trying to trip Gary up, or at least drive him closer to Marley. Jake had seen that his cousin was rapidly tiring. He was really in no shape for such an encounter. Several times, he almost lost his footing, narrowly missing capture by less than a hairsbreadth! 

"Call off your dog, Marley!" Gary cried, having finally seen his rescuers. "You've lost!"

"Not yet, I haven't," the assassin snarled, lunging at Gary, and missing. "To win . . . all I have to do . . . is kill you!" 

Gary dodged another lunge by the henchman, bringing his club down in a blow that connected solidly with the man's head, laying him out on the floor, unconscious. That left him facing only the ring-leader, Marley. It also put him directly in front of the gaping door. Panting, he stood his ground, looking for some way past the enraged assassin. The others were just wrapping up their fights, too far away to help him, as yet. Still, what could Marley do? Even if he killed Gary, at this point, he could not hope to elude capture. What was the point of all the posturing?

"Give it up!" he yelled, trying to make himself heard above the roaring of the wind. "You don't have to do this!"

His face twisted in an insane mask of rage, Marley lunged forward, knocking Gary through the door!

Jake cried out in horror as he watched the two figures disappear into the darkness. He lunged forward in a futile attempt to save Gary, only to be brought up short by several pairs of arms. 

"It's no good!" someone shouted in his ear. "They're gone!"

"No!" Jake snapped, driving his elbow into someone's ribs. "Let me go!"

"It's too late!" Parker told him, stepping in front of the distraught banker and placing both hands firmly on his shoulders. "He's gone, Evans," he added more gently. "There's no way he could survive a fall at this speed."

"You don't know that!" Jake grated out between clenched teeth, his voice almost a sob. "You don't know Gary!"

"I know that hitting the ground from *anything* traveling at better than fifty miles an hour will kill you," Parker replied dismally. His stomach twisted into knots as he envisioned a replay of that grim scene in the Critical Care Unit. Of Lois and Bernie Hobson once more giving their son permission to die. Only now, he wouldn't need it. "I'm sorry, Evans. I know you two were . . ."

"H-help! Help me! Please?"

Stunned, the restraining arms fell away, leaving Jake free to throw himself to the floor in front of that menacing maw. He craned his neck to peer cautiously toward the back of the car. It was too dark to see clearly, but he was sure that the figure clutching the inspection ladder with one hand was Gary! 

"H-hurry, please," the figure begged, having to shout to be heard above the racket of the train. "I-I can't h-hold on . . . m-much longer!"

Fire burned the length of Gary's arm as he clung desperately to the metal rung. His feet scrabbled helplessly for the slightest toehold to ease the strain. His breath caught in his throat, slammed back by the force of the slipstream as the train sped towards its destination!

"Hurry!" he repeated.

Jake turned back to the dumbfounded agents. "Hold my legs," he told them. "Hurry! He hasn't got much time!"

Shaking off their shock-induced immobility, the two agents each grabbed a leg and hung on. Jake slid his body forward through the opening, keeping as close to the rear edge as he could, until he was in serious danger of falling, himself. Stretching his hands out, he tried to grab onto the jacket that Gary had borrowed. He could just barely touch the shoulder!

"Gary!" he screamed, trying to make himself heard. "Give me your hand! Reach for me! Now!"

With what felt like superhuman effort, Gary tried to bend his left arm; raise it just enough to reach out for his cousin's outstretched hand. Pain shot all the way to his neck and into his head, threatening to weaken his already shaky hold on consciousness!

"I can't," Gary screamed back. "It won't move it that far!"

"Try, dammit!" Jake snapped. "Try it, or you're dead!"

Jake could hear Gary cursing, even over the noise of the train, as he strained to move his useless appendage. 

Bile rose in Gary's throat, choking him, as he tried to make his injured arm obey his command. Sweat broke out on his face and body, soaking his shirt, only to cool instantly in the freezing air. If he could only make the damned thing move!

"It's no good!" he finally called out. "I can't move my hand!"

"We don't want your hand, you idiot," an accented voice snarled. "We just need your arm! Can you raise it far enough for us to reach it?" Startled, Jake looked up to see the actor strapping on a safety harness. Kneeling next to the banker, he stretched out his hand. "Can you do that much?"

"I-I'll try," Gary stammered. They could almost see him biting his lip as he brought his left arm up with agonizing slowness. A muffled groan escaped him as he stretched it up to his rescuers. With a choked sob, he pressed his hand firmly against the wall of the car, forcing it to crawl up toward the desperate grasp of his rescuers. Two pairs of hands, Jake's and the actor's, clamped around the upper part of his arm, hanging on with a strength borne of desperation, as other hands pulled the rescuers back into the baggage car. There was a bad moment, when all of Gary's weight was on his injured arm, wringing from him an agonized scream before he went completely limp in their grasp. They finally managed to snag his right arm, dragging his unconscious form to safety.

***********

Pain. A deep, burning sensation that radiated from both shoulders and into his arms. It was ten times worse in the left, than in the right. The salty, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as he licked dry, torn lips. He dimly realized that he had bitten deeply into the lower one. A band of fire ran along his left ribs, along with a feeling of wetness.

"He's coming around," someone murmured, sounding close by. "I think he's going to be okay."

"Y-yeah," Gary mumbled, trying to will away the darkness. "M' okay." He blinked his eyes several times, forcing the fuzzy pink blobs hovering above him to take on their normal clarity. At least a dozen faces were peering anxiously, relaxing into relieved smiles as he opened his eyes. Slowly craning his head, Gary saw that he was on the floor of the 'baggage car,' the movie crew making up a large part of his audience. "Wh-where . . .?"

"We're still on the train, Gary," Jake told him. He looked a little worn, but otherwise okay. "You scared the hell out of us for a few minutes. Everyone thought you'd . . . I mean . . . wh-when you and Marley f-fell . . ."

"S' okay," Gary murmured. He gave his cousin a weak smile. "Not the first time I've come back from the dead. H-how'd you . . . I didn't think . . ."

"That part was obvious the minute you took off on your own," Donovan snorted. He was pulling Gary's shirt up, having noticed a red stain seeping through. "I don't suppose you stopped to consider what might happen?"

"They shot Jake," Gary sighed, averting his troubled gaze. "C-couldn't let that . . ."

"I *knew* it!" the banker snapped. He shot the two agents an angry look. "I *told* you he wasn't running! He was playing decoy! Gary, it's not your fault that we look so much alike. Quit taking responsibility for something you had nothing to do with."

"But Marley . . ."

"Could just as easily have latched onto one of the twins, if they had been here," Jake reminded him. "Like Neff's gorillas did with you in 'Vegas. Did you once blame Clay for any of that? No! So why should I blame you for Marley?"

"I dunno," Gary sighed, "but gimme a minute. I'll think o' somethin'." He tried to raise his right hand, to rub at his aching head, but it hurt too much. "Ever' one else okay?" he asked. "No one hurt?"

"Just you," Parker grumbled. Digging into his pocket, he handed Jake a folded bill. "Do you *always* do that?"

"Hmm?" Gary murmured. He gritted his teeth as Donovan stripped away the bandage over his ribs. "Do what?" he grunted.

"Never mind," the agent sighed. He was looking down at the row of busted stitches. "Ow! *That* has to hurt!"

"I-it does," Gary grunted as the black agent applied pressure to the wound. "Ya wouldn't have any Tylenol or somethin' handy, would ya?"

"We need to get him someplace more comfortable than this floor," the swarthy actor commented. "He can use my compartment, if he wishes. It's just past the dining car."

Jake and the two agents exchanged anxious, but amused glances. Gary's 'delaying tactic' was still scattered all over the floor of the galley. The banker suggested they lay some heavy mats or blankets over it until someone could clean it up. While Donovan went in search of the appropriate 'counter measures,' Jake and Parker helped Gary to stand. It took one to each side, grabbing him by the belt and under the shoulders, to help him to his feet.

Swaying unsteadily, Gary looked over at the yawning gap of the cargo door. The pitch black was broken only by the occasional flicker as nearby scenery reflected back the lights being used by the movie crew.

"I didn't hear him hit," Gary murmured softly, his words hardly more than a whisper.

"What's that?" Jake asked, one arm encircling Gary's back to support his cousin. "Didn't hear what hit?"

"Marley," Gary mumbled tiredly as he let them lead him back toward the dining car. "I didn't hear it . . . when he . . . when he hit the ground. I-I think we were on some kinda bridge, or somethin'. Wh-when he fell, he . . . he screamed, but I never heard . . ."

"Don't worry about it," Parker grunted, supporting him from the other side. "We'll send a team back to search for the body. No way *he's* gonna come out of this alive!" He stepped gingerly onto the coarse matting that Donovan had tossed onto the floor of the dining car. "You've seen the last of Mr. Marley."

********

Gary insisted on staying on the train until they were safely in Chicago. Marley's four henchmen were turned over to the police in Wheeling, West Virginia, where Donovan stayed to press charges. He promised to meet them in Chicago the next day.

To Gary's chagrin, his parents and Polly were waiting for him at Union Station. They must have caught the plane that he had lied to the admiral about. The look his mother gave him as he was helped down the steps, while promising a *series* of long, irate lectures, was nothing compared to the one leveled at him by the fuming tech. If looks could kill, she could have depopulated half of the State of Illinois! Her left arm was hugged tightly to her side, while she rubbed vigorously to ease the pain in her left shoulder.

"You will explain to us why you chose to pull such a harebrained stunt," she growled. *"Correct?"*

"S-sure," Gary stammered. "Could we, um, hold off until I get these . . . these stitches repaired? I promise to tell you everything. B-but I think you've probably figured it out, already."

"I'm sure we have," Lois grumbled. "Gary, I can understand your motives, and I know you thought you were doing the right thing, but if you *ever* pull anything like this again, your father and I will lock you in your loft, weld all the doors and windows shut, and feed you through a hole in the wall! You scared the *life* out of us!"

Gary was almost relieved to be loaded into the waiting ambulance. 

**********

Friday, March 8, Chicago - 1130 hrs

"It feels good to be home," Gary sighed as he eased onto the barstool. "So, Marissa. How was the honeymoon?"

"Wonderful," was his partner's wistful response. Then her expression sobered, became almost grim. "It would've been perfect if we hadn't come home to learn you were in another hospital. In Washington, D.C., no less. Gary, what *are* we going to *do* with you?"

"Not you, too!" Gary groaned. He propped his right elbow on the counter and rubbed his hand across his face. "I've been getting one lecture after another since I got back! Everyone from the President on down to the nurses at the hospital has had a crack at me. How many times do I have to say 'I'm sorry!' I *know* it was a stupid stunt! I *know* I could've been killed! *Believe me,* I know! I've only heard it sixteen times since getting off that train the other night. I just couldn't think of any other way to end this! So long as Marley and crew were out there, I couldn't show my face!"

"And neither could Jake," Marissa nodded, seeing his point. "Yet Lois and Bernie could come and go as they pleased."

"Only because Marley hadn't caught on that they were important to me," Gary shrugged, wincing slightly. Both shoulders were feeling much better, now. The right had been sprained when he'd grabbed onto the rung of the ladder. It was stiff, but mobile. The left still hurt like a son of a gun, but was responding well to treatment. He already had more strength and flexibility in his hand. The doctors had assured him that he would be back to normal within a month. 

"Are they sure he's dead?" the sightless woman asked. "That Mr. Parker said they never found the body."

*"They* seem to think so," Gary sighed. "I wish I could be as positive about it, but . . . I don't know. Part of me wants him to be gone for good, like his father. Another part of me . . . Wh-why should someone have to die for me to feel safe? I just wanted him caught, not dead!" He rubbed nervously at the back of his neck. "All I'd planned on doing was force him to follow me back here, where I knew the territory as well, if not better, than he did. I wanted him *caught,* not killed!" He shook his head, lying it on his forearm with a sigh of frustration. "Oh, God!" he groaned. "I screwed up *so bad!"* 

"You did what you had to, Hobson."

Gary looked up at the two men standing by the entrance. Parker and an older man he had never seen before stepped up to the counter.

"You stopped a terrorist plot that would have had a devastating effect on our country," the bearded man told him in a deep, vibrant voice. "Because of you, we have four men in custody who have already given us contacts in two other cells in Europe and the Middle East. They even hinted at a group operating out of South Africa, although they're a little ambiguous as to that group's agenda. Bradley Talmadge," he said by way of introduction, extending his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Hobson."

Gary stared at the hand for a moment before hesitantly reaching out to shake it. "I-I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," he murmured. "Are you . . . are you part of th-that, um, that 'committee' Parker was telling me about?"

"No," Talmadge assured him. "But, like Mr. Parker, I answer to them. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?"

Gary shot Parker a quick glance, receiving a noncommittal shrug, before leading the way to his office. Easing down into the chair behind his desk, Gary turned to face the two men, who each took a seat on the sofa.

"Before you say anything," Gary told them, holding up his, well, *least* injured hand, "let me save you some time. No."

"No?" Talmadge murmured, puzzled. "No what? I haven't asked you anything, yet."

"I'm not going back to . . . wherever your project is located," Gary elaborated. "I don't need your 'committee' dictating my actions. I have enough bosses as it is, thank you. And I *don't* want your protection. I've been that route before, and they'll only get in my way."

"You don't know what we can offer you, Mr. Hobson," Talmadge persisted. "Not just protection. Together, we can accomplish so much *more* than you can on your own!"

"But *will* you?" Gary retorted stiffly. "I'm the first to admit that I'm not perfect. And I certainly don't have the kinda training Parker and Donovan have had, but I get out there everyday and do the best I can. For *everyone!* I didn't sit on my hands last September and say, 'Let's see. No world leaders get killed, or anyone else that the country, or the world can't live without. Too bad about the rest, but we're gonna sit this one out.' I tried. Almost got my head blown off, but I tried. *You had the power to stop it!* **And you did nothing! ** Not a *damned* thing because your *committee* said 'hands off!' I can't live with decisions like that. I can't, and won't, be shackled to a bunch of bureaucrats who can."

Talmadge sat back with a sigh. Parker had warned him of Hobson's firm stance on that particular issue. Truthfully, he had not been happy with the committee's decision, either. *None* of the Backstep team had taken it well. Even Ramsey, who was so 'by the book,' he wouldn't question his own execution, if it came to it, had pitched a desk lamp through one of the security monitors. Parker, predictably, had chosen to get ripped and, with Donovan's help, trashed a bar in Reno.

"They're not going to be happy with your refusal," he grumbled. 

"You say that like I should care," Gary snorted. "I don't." He tried to lever himself up from the chair, his movements hampered by his injuries. "If that's all you have to say, guys, then . . ."

"Easy, Hobson," Frank chuckled, leaning back into the cushions. "We can't just sit and visit awhile? Catch each other up on what's happening? We, um, we found the spot where we think Marley must've fallen."

Gary slowly sank back down, his posture tense, wary. "Wh-what did you . . . I mean, did you find h-his . . . body?"

"No," Talmadge sighed. "A pity, really. I'd like to close the book on this one, but he apparently fell into a river. His body may have been carried downstream for miles."

Gary let out a huge sigh, closing his eyes as he practically collapsed against his desk. "I almost wish you'd found him, " he murmured. "Dead, he's out of my life forever. At least, this way, though, there's still a chance for him."

"Excuse me?" his two visitors chorused.

"You sound like you hope he's alive!" Parker grumbled irritably. "Hobson, we're talkin' about the guy who tried to *kill you!* Who carved little pieces off of you and fried you like a chicken! He tried to *wreck* the Vice President's train! And he almost killed your cousin, thinking *he* was *you!* Have I left anything out?"

"Well," Gary murmured, "no. For the sake of my family and friends, plus anyone else he might've set his sites on, I hope he's roasting in Hell right now. B-but some . . . small . . . tiny part of me *does* hope that he's still alive. I-I just think he's entitled to his day in court. Call me crazy . . ."

*"That's* a given!" Parker snorted.

"But I still believe in justice," Gary continued, ignoring the interruption. "I *know* the system can be manipulated. *God,* do I know that!" he added with a shudder. "I just . . . I-if anyone ever deserved the death penalty, it's Marley. I just don't feel comfortable with . . . I mean, I can live with what happened on the train. I wasn't *trying* to kill him, but I wasn't in a position to save him, either. It goes with what I've been trying to tell you guys all along. *Every* life matters. Even his."

Parker nodded thoughtfully, remembering the look on Hobson's face when that one man had died on top of him. A man who had been involved in his kidnapping and torture. Was there anything this man *couldn't* forgive?

"You trying out for a role in 'The Second Coming?'" Parker grumbled.

It was Gary's turn to look confused. "Run that by me again," he suggested. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Don't you hold *any* grudges?" the agent asked.

"Sure," was the quick reply. "Put the bastard here in front of me and give me a TASER. But, once the score is settled, what's the point? It's not up to me to decide if Marley should live or die. That's what we have courts and juries for."

"You are a most unusual man, Mr. Hobson," Talmadge chuckled. He held out his hand as he rose to go. "It's been a privilege to have met you."

Gary took his hand in a firm grip, giving the man a fleeting smile. "I'm just your average Joe," he shrugged. "Nothing special. Why don't you guys stick around for a while. My folk's 've been asking about you, Frank. They didn't get much of a chance to talk with you the other night."

"No," Frank shuddered. "They were too busy raking you over the coals. Are they here?"

"They went to pick up my Aunt Rose at the airport," Gary replied. "She's flying in from Santee, California. They should be back any minute. And Jake is bringing someone over for lunch. That actor from the train, I think. He mentioned something about a release. God! I wish I'd been paying more attention! I've been trying to remember where I've seen that guy before."

Frank looked startled at that. True, Gary had been suffering a mild case of shock, at the time, but surely he had to have recognized such an internationally known celebrity! Before he could say anything, there sounded a knock on the office door. As Gary struggled to rise, the door was flung open and two tiny tornadoes swarmed into the room, knocking him back into his chair! He barely had time to recognize the two-year old twin children of his best friend, Chuck Fishman, before the aforementioned friend poked his head into the room.

"Oh, there you are," he said with an impish grin. "You don't mind watching the kids while I take their mom out to lunch, do ya, Gar? There's a pal. See ya." He started to back out the door.

"Chuck Fishman!" Gary laughed, "get your sorry butt back in here! Don't you tell me you flew a coupla thousand miles to find a babysitter!" He tried to lift little Alexandria onto one knee, only to have to look to Frank for help. The agent was only too happy to oblige, taking the squirming child onto his own lap, giving Little Gary unimpeded access to his 'uncle.'

Frank realized his mistake as he resumed his seat on the couch, where Talmadge smiled at this rather domestic scene. As soon as the little boy had settled into Gary's lap, the barkeep's face took on a strange, faraway look, his smile becoming tight-lipped, strained.

Gary settled the wriggling toddler on his knee, hampered by having only limited use of his arms. In truth, Little Gary didn't look all that much like Geran, but that didn't matter. Big blue eyes looked up into his mud-puddle green ones, and the effect was like a sledgehammer to his gut. For just a moment, he was back on the gravel bed of that train yard, looking up into eyes that mirrored his own. He hugged the child closer, resting his chin in the soft blonde hair, and sighed wistfully. Chuck, having had his fun, had followed the children into the office. He took one look at Gary's face and knew that something was not right.

"You okay, Gar?" he asked in concern. "Is the kid too heavy for ya?"

"No," Gary murmured. "He's fine. *So,* um, what brings you guys in from the coast? Another movie deal?"

"No, you big lug," Chuck grumbled. "I heard you were makin' the rounds of the hospitals . . . again. Thought I'd see how many bones you broke, this time. Besides, Jade wanted to visit a few old friends. The legit type."

Gary had to grin at the hurried modifier. Jade's past was a little . . . murky, to say the least. 

Marissa poked her head around the open door just enough to be heard clearly. "Your *other* guests are here," she murmured with a note of awe in her voice. "Gary, why didn't you warn me! We could've had Carlos fix something special!"

"Warn you about what?" Gary asked, bewildered by her tone as much as her words. He coaxed a disappointed Little Gary back to his father. *Little* Gary wasn't the only one frowning. "He's a guy I sorta met on the train. He helped save my life and I've *already* told Carlos to fix something special! Are Mom and Dad back yet? I wanted them to meet him."

"Not yet," she replied. "Gary, don't you *know* who this is?"

"I don't think he does," Frank chuckled. He set Alex down and gave Gary a hand getting up. "He's about to find out, though."

Gary wore a suspicious look as he stepped through the office door, as if he thought his friends were pulling his leg. He saw Jake standing over by the main bar, talking with a tall, slender man with his back to Gary. The two were chuckling over some joke or chance remark while Jimmy was trying to pour a couple of beers without spilling them. He wasn't having much luck. As Gary and his two visitors from Project Backstep approached, the front door opened to admit his gaily chattering mother and her older sister. Bernie was bringing up the rear with a martyred look on his face. Jake and Lois spotted Gary at the same time. The banker waved his cousin over, turning to say something to his guest as he did so. The actor turned, giving the young proprietor a warm smile. Gary froze as he, at last, recognized his rescuer, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he tried to think of something to say. Something coherent, at least. Lois and her sister stopped dead in their tracks, mouths falling open as they were struck speechless.

"Gary," Jake said, flashing his stunned cousin a wicked grin, "let me introduce you to the man who saved our bacon the other night. In spite of our having ruined a week's worth of filming. Gary Hobson, Frank Parker, Chuck Fishman, say hello to . . ."

*"Antonio Banderas!"* Aunt Rose cried. She stood, transfixed, just a few feet away, her hand clutching at her breast. "Oh, my Lord!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "I *loved* you in 'The Mask Of Zorro!' And you were magnificent in 'Original Sin!' You absolutely took my breath away!"

"And 'The Body.' You were *wonderful* in that," Lois sighed, her expression completely star struck. "We've watched *all* of your movies, Mr. Banderas!" 

Both women descended on the gently smiling man, pleading for autographs, and talking a mile a minute. Banderas glanced at Jake, then Gary and gave a helpless shrug before giving Lois and Rose his full attention.

Gary waved the two agents over to a table, where Jake and Bernie soon joined them. The young proprietor's eyes were crinkled in amusement as he watched the two women fawning all over the man who had so obviously captured their hearts. It would be a month before they'd be able to talk about anything other than this moment! 

"We might as well get comfortable," he told the others, as he sat down. "This may take awhile."

**fin**

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